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Morning Song, 
Hark—hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 
And Phoebus ’gins arise, 
. His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers.that lies:  — 
And waking Nary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise, 
Arise, arise! Shakespeare, 


denny. 


Jenny kiss’d me when we mef, 
Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in, 
Say Pm weary, say I’m sad: 
Say that health and wealth have missed me; 
Say I'm growing old, but ada— ane 
Jenny kiss’d me! } Leigh Hunt, 
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306 CHESTNUT. STREET. 


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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


GES Ores) 


WITH FORTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FROM DESIGNS BY MARCUS STONE, 


PETERSONS UNIFORM EDITION OF DICKENS WORKS. 


CONTAINING 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 
GREAT EXPECTATIONS, SKETCHES BY “ BOZ,” 
LAMPLIGHTER’S STORY, OLIVER TWIST, 

DAVID COPPERFIELD, LITTLE DORRITT, 
DOMBEY AND SON, TALE OF TWO CITIES, 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, | _-NEW YEARS’ STORIES, 
PICKWICK PAPERS, DICKENS' SHORT STORIES, 
CHRISTMAS STORIES, MESSAGE FROM THE SEA, 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, HOLIDAY STORIES, 
BARNABY RUDGE, AMERICAN NOTES, 
DICKENS’ NEW STORIES, PIC-NIC PAPERS. 


BLEAK HOUSE, 


Ree nnn nnn nnn 


Philadselphia: 
Te eBetPeneR SON & BROTHERS; 
306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


* Rntered: according ne Act of Congress, in the Na 1865, te 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
In the Clerk’s Office of the District-Court of the United States, in aT tn Pee 


‘5 


Eastern District of Pennsylvania. — . aes 
¥ mis ole 


. 


THIS BOOK 
IS INSCRIBED BY ITS‘AUTHOR 
TO 


SIR JAMES EMERSON TENNENT 
AS 


A MEMORIAL OF FRIENDSHIP. 


CONTENTS, 


BOOK THE FIRST.—THE CUP AND THE LIP. 


CHAPTER PAGE 
I.—On the Look Out........ Kvdesocheqssusesivedioswakrereeeys By sie este ee scasbews Rivliscvudisvesasesies vabacedeateid 
TI.—The Man from Somewhere.....cooecsscsscessossceses Wededelencsedseausodecevavedscuespivwetohezeceuanetys 19 
EET TUL INO TT OLET brn Veliviouscitsvbsicecudessstousededvavovetcowove daeideSacsnaiedeleais saliva velageseeadevseerverive 24 
RA ME TITRA DUT BILLY soseshicssy ti crsnssveccredeesehores oeeedivectewshdeaden onccvudicseclayes eesussabeaees 29 
V.—Boffin’s Bower........s0006 Peaeseedeiiipee Suede sauiuan ecsuanedier tis ehoedday Wig ecu qeaaleasnanads segs cane diets 34 
RTL ARTEL Ge scvasinecvesvasasedscstheceucdscacs duceudicdc nines vetreacgouavedes sobesaesenseponcurscwemeaiey ties 40 
Per ertary Wy OPe MOCKS After Himsellf,.....istcessseettecnneessotsssceucecovsacsesccscavcevesddssueiesoepencens Ag 
Matha Mr. Bolin in Consultation........icc.cccsesecacyecossesccccesseevsesee dae sceetsetine, Ned onlays cu sian seo 51 
ee ee RA NES, DOM, In Consultation... ...sccrserosqaierasacedesocesecnetevdgunes Uorondendeieverps 56 
EMIT OETA OU oriss 6 (Su5b sacone acovas reocevncests cavenadusconcebenceaditabennecssensaseecaneditne 62 
EE Ne Se A0s 8 sank acts f'n S's iba eds pond bode Va cae dinghens s440¥s velharwobosvonsedestnerdeatonens’ 68 
See re weator afl Hondst. Man's Brow......<issccscssecscevccecceesceccss rected esciqcvreckescend sncves 75 
ease Lracking the Bird of Prey,..........00..0cccsssscesessavcssetosrsnsscssne palbecoucsen sneess rector savees 81 
SEG APG OF ELOY TOUCHE DOWD. 06.05... 0. cesecsadeccncscoucer sensseenscelsdeucreoneoescsenesacstaseseoss 85 
AV.—Two New Servants.......ccsccvssecccecsrsesscrersssegeeecesssesseacavensosseecsecsscsesesescesecssaes cesses 89° 
EERE ECLA AN ALO VIN LOTS iis v'es'osia 0 sale w xicdcdecwcispiandslecesesbawees edapieevsndesice ooepeceeeeveseeucewen 94 


Bev TiAl Dismal SWAMP i..csrrccececcesccesee vesevevoseves pabbeslevneelda vague GeWusdi cette ram tees sspaanuienyalgeanes 101 


BOOK THE SECOND.—BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 


CHAPTER . - PAGE 
I.—Of an Educational Character............ssssossscsossscssceecene senses ceeses np Rewbk suena dwon eer ereauerts cad 103 
Ue Py ack Sorina tc Wea yowaia conte vocde NEES e Radep oMbeegl ecgdedigdeedd cdsedensesevisasoneel 110 
TIT.—A Piece of Work............c0ceeeee ed gdgdudagiadornastnentenay less neCid er ueMemmi ees on tonr ee eat atiens 115 
TV.— Cupid Prompted...........sssccessscsecsscsecenssceeessssessrscessacsees Wpabea hoc pahie Peasaiavesacauns ceehine 119 
V.—Mercury Prompting...... sibaesAkvassaausensted se meagenute sd Cebee detntouatea Wek sbnh Ladtievess¥annnenedtabe 124 
RIG TV TEM OML BIIMATSWODis csc ss seccadees seek nssspeccdcvesdtedscuncewedscecedadaratsorcecagcacssoecns 131 
VII.—In which a Friendly Move is Originated............scecosssseee cee sendy cncieseyerdeeanaae ko deew el eaes 136 
VIII.—In which an Innocent Elopement Occurs......... pases Chasen viagwes sd vussurduseetdrssVeeshuavadeiaked 141 
IX.—In which the Orphan Makcs his Will............ Lvdpek sec un aerten trans enisasutanet eas hes 'sseantea detent 147 
K.—A Successor...scescccosccseesees PNdesais ution vexs ce cUNGs Waa ucwavewon ees melodies eel sai ceeaeicuvaatiededees the 151 
XI.—Some Affairs of the Heart.......... SUsdlacaaudey Pass Meseslachnaeseccaeeahst sda eankcasmmbibes node baited eave 154 
XIJI.—More Birds of Prey....... Sicdhsshdnpaede Misdeubeaki van ndaseuceurstieds tes leadsseivebesccny kreemente h saesrees 158 
XITI.—A Solo and a Duett........... wi dhivd Se ueneddetacuntetuteveN@vesecierscaduttacedeseua vender cs an ASH 165 
XIV.—Strong of Purpose.........seseeee DAL aden eneed Cise TN tare Uskh Jedsley eee ves rin bidied ote ceid dole Gonsgauad cheanas 171 
XV.—The Whole Case so far........ sataess Ese oiNdes Ficedst sacVodeodoveeees ivecorbenubaanareccedesemanserentsdt 176 
Be Ase AUTLVOTSRIY OCCASION ys sccssoc'sacsny stvcecses cvsvvcesesevidussesisccesdvsneccabavecocecccs easaunese PRAY Bo 


(13) 


14 ‘ CONTENTS. 


BOOK THE THIRD.—A LONG LANE. 


CHAPTER — PAGE 
I.—Lodgers in Queer Street..........ssseeseeeee rn pete eeehcss Teheeeen o<uhGawteiy vas) orecsosab sya cee 
II.—A Respected Friend in a New Aspect......ccesscceccseeeeves petasyen rhwake ahh upsnabenedndeatseenennte 193 
III.—The Samg Respected Friend in more Aspects than One...s.c.ccssssessssssesesces vesescssecsenees 198 
IV.—A Happy Return of the Day.............0+ d's ducers scndepeens sone desstbdenshonesssaness dveensectinensaneeh 201 
V.—The Golden Dustman Falls into Bad OM DAT Yay. p se res senses Sane choede.dwacp tinge cats vonren peeneaees 205 
VI.—The Golden Dustman Falls into Worse Company...... MEECT spe va'iivn a gis So deted saowhavesegarelae thee 212 

_ WII.—The Friendly Move takes up a Strong Position........ Aves soups y sae negpak sth coeeyehaparuviee sree 217 
- VIII.—The End of a Long Journey............000 Geish dea nce on She's Appa de aseb diay € ae Reta ate penis Seuipias kanes 222 
IX.—Somebody Becomes the Subject of a Prediction............scsscssscsescscceccessccsscescoecscenenens 227 

Ke Pe GOULER ADEs v5.04) cane ceinphaddioneaia no tbedymun sow hinesinnneitind ap pied demenin de cpibduighnnste dant Aink voltestie due ete na 234 
AXI.—In the Dark...........eceee debbenwiednd HvbeenseVenns csatabsencslsss ned susteckbeassteus avs sostahedees stieneene 239 
gdh ce LORIN AN ISO LOL, , . 0 away ysis adie w nents ook pilans pou ag ba og th uRpeier <oaspy senswh ch cosaay es \eeun cine 243 
mLLi.—Give.a Dogs. Bad Namo, and: Hang Himsa niccccescosnawnecvendoidacaongytinsveawne ts ovvssomsevepta 247 
XIV.—Mr. Wegg Prepares a Grindstone for Mr. Boffin’s Nose........sscscsessesceecsecsecseccecsecsers 251 
Vin The Golden Diptman at Eis, Worstenccssisesdveises uphaventavoe Wbags stvcedsscbdndebicedrecteroeren 256 
XVI.—The Feast of the Three Hobgoblins.............:. elvis uansvcbeads S58 Sse sbak Sodtnedndg ty ake 100s FD 262 
Pee ce OGIO L SM OU TUE Brids Gre (iS ok lace Pub SWks Kites é oracs guise sodesns cgvcceded ce coodsepat ais ab esvendepebs ret bees 269 


BOOK THE FOURTH—A TURNING, 


CHAPTER PAGE. 
Pe SOBEL EAPEvipaccivacss bosses conse onodeconvane sivcandnaces creas ooaseudobetgope ge bbakPubsant tadegae raneataeel 274 
ET et ne Glas) LB G68 BD Lattle. >.< s.5)0c0se sass eacanteeie’sannamenceees fies'8 pith ly en oe 279 
#A0T,——Trevaaimen, Dustman. Binks A gain..,....eierseseccentscosses>sescyasoeep aileasthalsen Rieiuen oe 282 
Bee As ReDaway, MAGCD as iasieviesesvearsyxsosneaccadpapbasupsonneecsn gee dnage taken Gah eas cia tata: Renae 286 
V.—Concerning the Mendicant’s Bride.............++ pemasehe dapnsinns saocengangebpeunaed ike benenaretae tae 291 
Os A rrr fer EE OE 522 DiS is kiwi b's onpad'ea. dens vpas gas noi vn’ bone t4aasinig thc dguaseealody sauce MOM RE seat saa 297 
Wik Letter to. he Abel than Calvin. 1. ...<0s90caceds vhaanaclvermmisedaste seueres ovine em ssk dos ltumwe serawetraveb ees 303 
VIII.—A Few Grains of Pepper...............06. SOE ATES See eer Tr a F Br Aa OV ee ey 308 
IX.—Two Places Vacated......... RATE Peewee sob ars Sout SeQciviesevecad spate Ma wwEMLeeee teens bvante coon ee 312 
*.—'TheDolreDrosemaker Discovers BW Odi. ..s 00.05 shes sncesccectausocesseste peakieuel es ccedeceeal 317 
XI.—Effect is given to the Doll’s Dressmaker’s Discovery............sccessssseeessceseceeees ice wehnt Cokes 319 
te DP Pam tnie: BiadOwelt ivi ssisitence tigeped dabvcevoodiveapeadaties! ERE Re Ors. ae 324 
XIII.—Showing how the Golden Dustman Helped to Scatter Dust...............cseceesscceeeeeseesenaes 331 
XIV.—Checkmate to the Friendly. Move....c...ccc.sissuscceseetesseseascaceess RpAdA TOMAAR eRe sas Rid ebcuys eee 334 
XV.—What was Caught in the Traps that were Set....... i 6 nts adobe Coals cacaeins aed tae ad eal hgh ee kere acke 3 oan 
XVi.—Persons and Things in Gemeral....i. .ciscsese casavecceconsevscesecscqescsstasensevepiossse ehsdn els poRG ee 346. 
CHAPTER THE LAST.—The Voice of Society............ gd cghewdi yal sagan cep ebulgsWaedsaotadet. aR 2 350 


POSTSCRIPT.—In Lieu of a IPreruee at cas base nha dno av'dvacheh eotawcbaauduveyeine teece eecece @eececcces oe 353 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS, SQ... ccsccevescvenceccsvsseses 10 Face Mile. 
BERET © PPUEAPAGH: clyccccscescbecewemasscceacvescscersseer LACE POrtrau 
I re Ls a al veins Fem piasecwnpehegedmeneladoeeceeecagas 
Tree PE TMIENT (2, ius oa mess cd vieccste whee cute deus eacadcetawes cht 
EN he Nee aS ML e's b's we ccie ees eles caelec Ge Leda ebon ee ewe ues 
Mr. Venus SURROUNDED BY THE 'l'ROPHIES OF HIS ART..0. ccacccccccccccccee 
SUPT ROG REES 1 occ tds oak o's Wes Wield be cela teed enc vediiee ss 
Ne OTE ay ilk coca dieie ee eh CM ee Gin WRlelelel whl W brevis wgtaturate 
RR ea San eo iano. ay. Cen oe Sawidie sets ese we'd bie (alemeigdtores 
MET LE PUR) < ¢6/s o's 04 cls o.c's,0.0/4 5 0.0.00 0'4 bed Weed beedcneues 
DURES ORE REY ISROUGHT: L)OWN..ccee-s eves cece sets dcusisecav cpelediados 
Mes ISORPIN, DISCOVERS AN ORPHAN. Si s2 ccc cece cece csebeacetcce 
Tue PrrRson OF THE House AND THE BaD CHILD.... 2.22. cece cece 
EI TOO arog Sn G din b wide wie'e e ateiate mie.o o:6 alera vinle cvbiamei gr e's « 
ras cas was een bee eke upe scwctdlsls neletleete uetales's 
MTG LIGMESTIC VIRTUES... . coc. voce cece cuscccecscctedececucas site’ ons 
IGE AND LA'S LAUGHTER... 60.00. scss even ccssosaesbesicces seeensees 
eT Tee ec oa else boca ches seeeceee Cees hes calvlseneacde eosed 
IAT TLOUE Ss oe sie sce nas Scceecse cust cceonssectecceecteseucwan 
TIES NEG CTR! 51s 'G fs cate laws wa o'6 45.4 8 S'd'co 'e'b'e bie Go's SS e Skea wows cdasibiee 
ES RIMS 2. kc eele/sd wwe ows a's wu dae eae ee ES OS SPE 
8) i Aig 's ww o'r ciple cle eejeee ede Gerdes bela dmcjew cowl beet siecle 
SPONGMON FOR THE. DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER...<)..c0c00cecd esse cece coe scea bane 
REM IINEHRHOOD LLIMSELE AGAIN... sare c'c0c'slnSie since sceupesasse die ebeteeee Goes 
RTA OM OTHE GOUDEN LIUSTMAN.. . occcscclec caledeccincctoenevesedecdieiees 
Tae Evin Genius OF THE HOUSE OF BOFFIN 2... .seccececcceccccccsesccecees 


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Tre ORES Dilele'e wis Mekis ocices e@@eeoeoeoeeeeeeee Pm eeGeoeeeseene gpeeseeeseeeeoeeF eevee e208 


MRR MN ORTH LUM oa 05 cv cei cso cic ccteges Seve acbabsarpecebensceeasons 
Mr. Fiepaesy Departs ON HIS HRRAND OF MERCY.......e0e cecceccscccccces 
Mr. Wece Prepares aA GRINDSTONE FoR Mr. Borrin’s NOSE.........eceeeee 
PeeeGe IMGHTIND BY'THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN.... ..csccevccsccsertecveess cues 
Tne Lovery Woman HAS HER FORTUNE TOLD... .ccece scene cececscseecseces 
PEE URUIOKKEEPER S\TIOUSE. oS SS ob. ee elsn ee cles becbeccectouuesestecesbe 
Comer Webbine Dinnur ar GReunwich ...0cede cca Uso d Voeluwe ce ecddeccucswuee 
TMG BY PHI |TV ER, (21 5\e 4 'e. o:aic'slneve olssete ogs c'slelale's wiel¥ ie wetbe mes Gorn oe)be 
- Berrer TO BE ABEL THAN CAIN. ..ccceccen cscs cess ctccccen sens cccccccenseres 
EEN (UTX MS: NSF UNWAL: oo she's'a’e, eles de eae aa ee'e cts ada tee ce se'e Mees cosine 
RE TIST IG aici 53s. aio) scale a width oS. m oem ole sb 0d pine aie eign eidieig isle u's's o MEMES wee 
I IEMER MORN TOMEI TH cla a's ale c-yid  agdia,e SR erg Se efel eo cikale 4 Ghlewadie eee cane wa etrag es 
Mr. Borrin Dors tHe Honors or THE NURSERY DOOR......cccccccccccccccs 
NEE Pr TP ee ed Ne RE aS ee a tlbie's ew vis hdeneedcuseuuunnts 
eS STU NADP a's dia ieicalels ale era bale sae cle ed's cce's'y 6 8 -eaiabes wise oc aelsleleen 
: (15) 


PAGE 


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42 
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71 
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119 
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134 
142 
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160 
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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


au four Books. 


, BOOK L—THE CUP AND THE LIP, 


CHAPTER I. 
ON THE LOOK-OUT. 


‘In these times of ours, though concerning the 
exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat 
of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two 
figures in it, floated on the Thames, between 
Southwark Bridge which is of iron, and London 
Bridge whieh is of stone, as an autumn evening 
was closing in. 

The figures in this boat were those of a strong 
man with ragged grizzled hair and a sun-brown- 
ed face, and a dark girl of nineteen or twenty, 
sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his 
daughter. ‘The girl rowed, pulling a pair of 
sculls very easily; the man, with the rudder- 
lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose in 
his waistband, kept an eager look-out. He had 
no net, hook, or line, and he could not be a fish- 
erman; his boat had no cushion for a sitter, no 
paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty 
boat-hook and a coil of rope, and he could not 
be a waterman; his boat was too crazy and too 
small to take in cargo for delivery, and he could 
not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was 
no clew to what he looked for, but he looked for 
something, with a most intent and searching 
gaze. ‘The tide, which had turned an hour be- 
fore, was running down, and his eyes watched 
every little race and eddy in its broad sweep, as 
the boat made slight headway against it, or drove 
stern foremost before it, according as he directed 
his daughter by a movement of his head. She 
watched his face as earnestly as he watched the 
river. But, in the intensity of her look there 
was a touch of dread or horror. 

Allied to the bottom of the river rather than 
the surface, by reason of the slime and ooze with 
which it was covered, and its sodden state, this 
boat and the two figures in it obviously were do- 
ing something that they often did, and were seek- 
ing what they often sought. Half savage as the 
man showed, with no covering on his matted 
head, with his brown arms bare to between the 
elbow and the shoulder, with the loose knot of a 
looser kerchief lying low on his bare breast in a 
wilderness of beard and whisker, with such dress 
as he wore seeming to be made out of the mud 
that begrimed his boat, still there was business- 
like usage in his steady gaze. So with every 
lithe action of the girl, with every turn of her 
wrist, perhaps most of all with her look of dread 
or horror ; they were things of usage. 


‘‘Keep her out, Lizzie. Tide runs strong 
here. Keep her well afore the sweep of it.” 

Trusting to the girl’s skill and making no use 
of 'the rudder, he eyed the coming tide with an 
absorbed attention. Sothe girleyedhim. But, 
it happened now, that a slant of light from the 
setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, 
and, touching a rotten stain there which bore 
some resemblance to the outline of-a-mufiled hiu- 
man form, colored it as though with diluted 
blood. “This caught the girls €yé, and she shiv- 
ered. 

“* What ails you?” said the man, immediately 
aware of it, though so intent on the advancing 
waters; ‘‘I see nothing afloat.” 

The red light was gone, the shudder was gone, 
and his gaze, which had come back to the boat 
for a moment, traveled away again. Whereso- 
ever the strong tide met with an impediment, hig 
gaze paused for an instant. At every mooring- 
chain and rope, at every stationary boat or barge 
that. split the current into a broad arrow-head, at 
the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge, 
at the paddles of the river steamboats as they 
beat. the filthy water, at the floating logs of tim- 
ber lashed together lying off certain wharves, his 
shining, eyes darted a hungry look. After a 
darkening hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines 
tightened in his hold, and he steered hard toward 
the, Surrey shore. 

Always watching his face, the girl instantly 
answered to the action in her sculling; presently 
the boat swung round, quivered as from a sudden 
jerk, and the upper half of the man was stretch- 
ed out over the stern. 

The girl pulled the hood of a cloak she wore, 
over her head and over her face, and, looking 
backward so that the front folds of this hood 
were turned down the river, kept the boat in that 
direction going before the tide. Until now, the 
boat had barely held her own, and had hovered 


|about one spot; but now, the banks changed 


swiftly, and the deepening shadows and the kin- 
dling lights of London Bridge were passed, and 
the tiers of shipping lay on either hand. 

It was not until now that the upper half of the 
man came back into the boat. His arms were ~ 
wet and dirty, and he washed them over the 
side. In his right hand he held something, and 
he washed that in the river too. It was moncy. 
He chinked it once, and he-blew upon it once, 
and he spat upon it once—‘ for luck,” he hoarse- 


| ly said—before he put it in his pocket. 


27) a 


a 
yee 
18 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
“te: 
Ss 
eS 
I 
oa 
fs 
fo) 
a 
3 
4 
S 
= 
= 
“ Lizzie!” He was moving toward her to change places, 
The girl turned her face toward him with a | but her terrified expostulation stopped him and 
start, and rowed in silence. Her face was very | he resumed his seat. 
pale, He was a hook-nosed man, and with that} ‘‘ What hurt can it do you?” 
and his bright eyes and his ruffled head, bore a] | ‘‘None, none. But I can not bear it.” 
_ certain likeness to a roused bird of prey. ‘*{t’s my belief you hate the sight of the very 
‘‘'Take that thing off your face.” river.” 
She put it back. ‘*T—I do not like it, father.” ; 
“Here! and give me hold of the sculls. I'll} ‘As if it wasn’t your living! As if it wasn’t 
%» take the rest of the spell.” meat and drink to you!” 


‘‘No, no, father! No! Ican’t indeed. Fa-| At these latter words the girl shivered again, 
ther !—I can not sit so near it!” and for a moment paused in her rowing, seem- 


NN cneryecpn eR pts sacl 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ing to turn deadly faint. It escaped his atten- 
tion, for he was glancing over the stern at some- 
thing the boat had in tow. 


a n_you be so thankless to your best 
friend, Lizzie? ‘The very fi Varmed you 


whén you were-a-babby, was picked out 6 
_ river alongside the coal barges. ‘The very basket 


that you slept in, the tide washed ashore. The 
very rockers that I put it upon to make a cradle 
of it, I cut out of a piece of wood that drifted 
_ from some ship or another.” 

Lizzie took*her right hand from the scull it 
held, and touched her lips with it, and’for a 
moment held it out lovingly toward him; then, 
without speaking, she resumed her rowing, as 
another boat of similar appearance; though in 
rather better trim, came out from a dark place 
and dropped softly alongside. 

_‘*In luck again, Gaffer?” said a man with a 
squinting leer, who sculled her and who was 
alone. ‘‘I know’d you was in luck again, by 
your wake as you come down.” 

‘¢ Ah!” replied the other, dryly. 
out, are you?” 

‘¢Yes, pardner.” 

There was now a tender yellow moonlight on 
the river, and the new-comer, keeping half his 
boat’s length astern of the other boat, looked 
hard at its track. 

“*T says to myself,” he went on, ‘directly 
you hove in view, Yonder’s Gaffer, and in luck 

again, by George if lie aint! Scull it 1s, pard- 

erate fret poerect=t didn’t touch him.” 
' This was in answer to a quick impatient move- 
ment on the part of Gaffer: the speaker at the 
same time unshipping his scull on that side, and 
_ laying his hand on the gunwale of Gaffer’s boat 
and holding to it. 

‘*He’s had touches enough not to want no 
more, as well as I make him out, Gaffer! Been 
a knocking about with a pretty many tides, ain’t 
he pardner? Such is my out-of-luck ways, you 
see! He must have passed me when he went 
up last time, for I was on the look-out below 
bridge here. I a’most think you're like the wul- 
turs, pardner, and scent ’em out.” 

He spoke in a dropped voice, and with more 
than one glance at Lizzie who had pulled on 
her hood again. Both men then looked with 
a weird unholy interest at the wake of Gaffer’s 
boat. 

‘* Rasy does it, betwixt us. 
aboard, pardner ?” 

‘“* No,” said the other. In so surly atone that 
the man, after a blank stare, acknowledged it 
with the retort: 

«¢__. Arn’t been eating nothing as has disagreed 
with vou, have you, pardner?” 

‘Why, yes, I have,” said Gaffer. ‘‘I have 
been swallowing too much of that word, Pard- 
ner. Iam no pardner of yours.” 

**Since when was you no pardner of mine, 
Gaffer Hexam, Esquire ?” 

«Since you was accused of robbing a man. 
Accused of robbing a live man!” said Gaffer, 
with great indignation. 

** And what if I had been accused of robbing 
a dead inait, Gaffer 2” SE ie 

‘You COULDN'T do it.” 

**Couldn’t you, Gaffer ?” 

**No. 


Has So 
Ts it possible for a dead man to have money? . 


“* So youre 


Shall I take him 


19 


What world does a dead man belong to? "Toth- 
er world. What world does money belong to? 
This world. How can money be a corpse’s? 
Can a corpse own it, want.it, spend it, claim it, 
miss it? Don’t try to go confounding the rights 
and wrongs of things in that way. But it’s wor- 
thy-ef- the sneaking spirit that robs’a live Yan.” 

“TIT tell you what it is— 

‘‘No you won’t. J’ll tell you’ what it is. 
You’ve got off with a short time of it for putting 
your hand in the pocket of a sailor, a live sailor. 
Make the most of it and think yourself lucky, 
but don’t think after that to come over me with 
your pardners. We have worked together in 
time past, but we work together no more in time 
present nor yet future. _Let go. Cast off!” 

‘*Gaffer! If you think to get rid of me this 
way—” 

‘If I don’t get rid of you this way, I'll try 
another, and chop you over the fingers with the 
stretcher, or take a pick at your head with the 
boat-hook. Cast off! Pull you, Lizzie. Pull 
home, since you won’t let your father pull.” 

Lizzie shot ahead, and the other boat fell 
astern. Lizzie’s father,.composing himself-into 
the easy attitude of one who had asserted the 
high moralities and taken .an-unassailable posi-. 


tion, slowly lighted a pipe, and smoked, and | 


took a survey of what he had in tow. What he 
had tr tow, Tanged itsclf at him sometimes in an 
awful manner when the boat was checked, and 
sometimes seemed to try to wrench itself away, 
though for the most part it followed submissive- 
ly A neophyte might have fancied that the | 
ripples passing over it were dreadfully like faint 
changes of expression on a sightless face; but 
Gaffer was no neophyte and had no fancies, 


SP aR icsi eC ROT 


CHAPTER II. 
THE MAN FROM SOMEWHERE. 


Mr. and Mrs. Veneering were bran-new peo- 
ple in a bran-new house in a bran-new quarter 
of London. Every thing about the Veneerings_ 
oe All their furniture 
was new, all their friends were new, all their 
servants were new, their plate was new, their 
carriage was new, their harness was new, their 
horses were new, their pictures were new, they 
themselves were new, they were as newly mar- 
ried as was lawfully compatible with their hav- 
ing a bran-new baby, and if they had set upa 
great-crandfather, he would have come home in 
matting from the Pantechnicon, without a scratch 
upon him, French polished to the crown of his 
head. 

For, in the Veneering establishment, from the 
hall-chairs with the new coat of arms, to the 
grand piano-forte with the new action, and up 
stairs again to the new fire-escape, all things 
were in a state of high varnish and polish. And 
what was observable in the furniture, was observ- 
able in the Veneerings—the surface smelt a little 
too much of the work-shop and was a trifle sticky. 

There was an innocent piece of dinner-furni- 
ture that went upon easy castors and was kept 
over a livery stable-yard in Duke Street, Saint 
James’s, when not in use, to whom the Veneer- 
ings were a source of blind confusion. The name 
of this article was Twemlow. Being first cousin 


20: 


to Lord Snigsworth, he was in frequent requisi- 


a 


F 


tion, and at many houses might be said to repre- 
sent the dining-table in its normal state. Mr, 
and Mrs. Veneering, for example, arranging a 
d iy" started wit wemlow, and 
then put leaves in him, or added guests to him. 
Sometimes, the table consisted of Twemlow and 
half a dozen Ieaves; sometimes, of T'wemlow 
and a dozen leaves; sometimes, Twemlow was 
pulled out to his utmost extent of twenty leaves. 
Mr. and Mrs. Veneering on occasions of cere- 
mony faced each other in the centre of the board, 
and thus the parallel still held; for, it always 
happened that the_ more Twemlow was pulled 
out, the further he found himself_from the cen- 


~tre;-and_the-nearer to the side-board at the one 


¢ 


-pany” 


eyd of the room, or the window-curtains at the 
eG se é 

"But, it was not this which steeped the feeble 
soul of T'wemlow in confusion. This he was 
used to, and could take soundings of. The abyss 
to which he could find no bottom, and from 
which started forth the engrossing and ever- 
swelling difficulty of his life, was the insoluble 
questi k 4 riend 


or.pewest friend. To the excogitation of this | 


problem, the harmless gentleman had devoted 
many anxious hours, both in his lodgings over 
the livery stable-yard, and in the cold gloom, 
favorable to meditation, of Saint James’s Square. 
Thus. Twemlow had first known Veneering at 
his club, where Veneering then knew nobody but 
the man who made them known to one another, 
who seemed to be the most intimate friend he 
had in the world, and whom he had known two 
days—the bond of union between their souls, the 
nefarious conduct of the committee respecting 
the cookery of a fillet of veal, having been ac- 
cidentally cemented at that date. Immediately 
upon this, wemlow received an invitation to 
dine with Veneering, and dined: the man being 
a eee treats Ww 
recéived an invitation to dine with the man, and 
dined: Vencering being of the party. At the 
man’s were a Member, an Engineer, a Payer-off 
of the National Debt, a Poet, a Grievance, and 
a Public Officer who all seemed to be utter stran- 
gers to Veneering. And yet immediately after 
that, Twemlow received an invitation to dine at 
Veneerings, expressly to meet the Member, the 
Engineer, the Payer-off of the National Debt, 
the Poet, the Grievance, and the Public Office, 


and, dining, discovered_that all of them were the 
most intimate friends Veneerin ad ini 


world;-and-thiat_the wive em (Who 
were all there) were the objects of Mrs, Vencer- 
ing’s most.devoted “affection and-—tender confi- 
dence. _ ‘ 

Thus it had come about, that Mr. Twemlow 
had said to himself in his lodgings, with his 
hand to his forehead: ‘‘T must not think of this. 
This is enough to soften any man’s brain,”—and 
yet was always thinking of it, and could never 
form a conclusion. 

This evening the Vencerings give a banquet. 
Eleven leaves in the Twemlow ; fourteen in com- 
- Four pigeon-breasted retainers in 
plain clothes standing in line in the hall. A 
fifth retainer, proceeding up the staircase with a 
mournful air—as who should say, ‘‘ Here is an- 
other wretched creature come to dinner; such is 
life!” announces, ‘‘ Mis-tress Twemlow !” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Mrs. Veneering welcomes her sweet Mr. Twem- 
low. Mr. Veneering welcomes his dear Twem- 
low. Mrs. Veneering docs not expect that Mr. 
‘T'wemlow can in nature care much for such in- 
sipid things as babies, but so old a friend must 
please tolook at baby. ‘‘ Ah! You will know the 
friend of your family better, ‘Tootleums,” says 
Mr. Vencering, nodding emotionally at that new 
article, ‘‘when you begin to take notice.” He 
then begs to make his dear Twemlow known to 
his two friends; Mr. Boots and Mr. Brewer— 
and clearly has no distinct idea which is which, 

But now a fearful circumstance oceurs. 

‘* Mis-ter and Mis-sis Podsnap !” 


t 
‘““ My dear,” says Mr. Veneering to Mrs. Ve- 


neering, with an air of much friendly interest, 
while the door stands open, ‘‘the Podsnaps.” 

A too, too smiling large man, with a fatal 
freshness on him, appearing with his wife, in- 
stantly deserts his wife and darts at Twemlow 
with : 

‘‘How do you do? So glad to know you. 
Charming house you have here. I hope we are 
not late. So glad of this opportunity, I am 
sure !” 

When the first shock fell npon him, Twemlow 
twice skipped back in his neat little shoes and 
his neat little silk stockings of a by-gone fashion, 
as if impelled to leap over a sofa behind him; 
but the large man closed with him and proved 
too strong. 

‘* Let me,” says the large man, trying to at- 
tract the attention of his wife in the distance, 


‘“have the pleasure of presenting Mrs. Podsnap— 


to her host. She will be,” in his fatal freshness 
he seems to find perpetual verdure and eternal 
youth in the phrase, ‘‘she will be so glad of the 
opportunity, I am sure.” 

In the mean time Mrs. Podsnap, unable to 
originate a mistake on her own account, because 
Mrs. Veneering is the only other lady there, does 
her best in the way of handsomely supporting 
her husband’s, by looking toward Mr. Twem- 
low with a plaintive countenance and remarking 
to Mrs. Veneering in a feeling manner, firstly, 


that she fears he has been rather bilious of late, . . 
and secondly, that the baby is already very like 


him. 


Mr. Veneering having this very evening set up 
the shirt-front of the young Antinous (in new 
worked cambric just come home), is not at all 
complimented by being supposed to be Twem- 
low, who is dry and weazen and thirty-five years 
older. Mrs, Veneering equally resents the im- 
putation of being the wife of Twemlow. As to 
Twemlow, he is so sensible of being a much bet- 


ter bred man than Veneering, that he considers. 


the large man an offensive ass. 

In this complicated dilemma, Mr. Veneering 
approaches the large man with extended hand, 
and smilingly assures that incorrigible personage 
that he is delighted to see him: who in his fatal 
freshness instantly replies: . 

‘Thank you. I am ashamed to say that I 
can not at this moment recall where we met, 
but I am so glad of this opportunity, I am sure!” 

Then pouncing upon Twemlow, who holds 
back with all his feeble might, he is haling him 
off to present him, as Veneering, to Mrs. Pod- 


snap, when the arrival of more guests unravels 


It is questionable whether any man quite rel- — 
ishes being mistaken for any other man; but, © 


the mistake. 
hands with Veneering as Veneering, he re-shakes 


hands with Twemlow as Twemlow, and winds | 
? 


it all up to his own perfect satisfaction by saying 


to the last-named, ‘‘ Ridiculous opportunity—but 


so glad of it, Iam sure!” 

Now, 'Twemlow having undergone this terrific 
experience, having likewise noted the fusion of 
Boots in Brewer and Brewer in Boots, and hay- 
ing further observed that of the remaining seven 
guests four discreet characters enter with wan- 
dering eyes and wholly decline to commit them- 
selves as to which is Veneering, until Veneering 
has them in his grasp ;—T'wemlow having prof- 
ited by these studies, finds his brain wholesome- 
ly hardening as he approaches thé conclusion 


that he really is Veneering’s oldest friend, when | 


his brain softens again and all is lost, through 
his eyes encountering Veneering and the large 
man linked together as twin brothers in the back 
drawing-room near the conservatory door, and 
through his ears informing him in the tones of 
Mrs. Veneering that the same large man is to 
be baby’s godfather. 

‘Dinner is on the table !’’ 

Thus the melancholy retainer, as who should 
say, ‘‘ Come down and be poisoned, ye unhappy 
children of mén !”’ 

Twemlow, having no lady assigned him, goes 
down in the rear, with his hand to his forehead. 

Boots and Brewer, thinking him indisposed, 
Whisper, ‘‘Man faint. Had no lunch.” But 
is only stunned by the unvanquishable difti- 
ty of his existence. 

vived by soup, Twemlow discourses mildly 
the Court Circular with Boots and Brewer. 
appealed to, at the fish stage of the banquet, 
Veneering, on the disputed question whether 
cousin Lord Snigsworth is in or out of town? 


Gives it that his cousin is out of town. ‘At 
eerorthy Park ?” Veneering inquires. ‘‘ At 
_ Snigsworthy,” Twemlow rejoins. Boots and 


Brewer regard this as a man to be cultivated ; 
and Veneering is clear that he is a remunerative 
‘atticle. Meantime the retainer goes round, like 
gloomy Analytical Chemist: always seeming 
y, after ** Chablis, Sir ?”—‘* You wouldn’t 
i knew what it’s made of.” 
ie great looking-glass above the side-board 
is the table and the company. Reflects 
mew Veneering crest, in gold and eke in 
er, frosted and also thawed, a camel of all 
ork. The Heralds’ College found out a Cru- 
sading ancestor for Veneering who bore a camel 
_on his shield (or might have done it if he had 
thought of it), and a caravan of camels take 
\charge of the fruits and flowers and candles, and 
‘kneel down to be loaded with the salt. Reflects 
'Veneering; forty, wavy-haired, dark, tending to 
corpulence, sly, mysterious, filmy—a kind of suf- 
ficiently well-looking veiled-prophet, not proph- 
-esying. Reflects Mrs. Veneering; fair, aquiline- 
nosed and fingered, not so much light hair as 
she might have, gorgeous in a. jewels, 
enthusiastic, propitiatory, conscious that a cor- 
ner of her husband’s veil is over herself. Re- 
flects Podsnap: prosperously feeding, two little 
light-colored wiry wings, one on either side of 
his else bald head, looking as like his hair-brushes 


as his hair, dissolving view of red beads on his! 


forehead, large allowance of crumpled shirt-col- 
lar up behind. Reflects Mrs. Podsnap; fine 


| 


21 


Whereupon, having re-shaken' woman for Professor Owen, quantity of bone, 


neck and nostrils like a rocking-horse, hard feat- 
ures, majestic head-dress in which Podsnap has 
hung golden offerings. Reflects Twemlow; gray, 
dry, polite, susceptible to east wind, First-Gentle- 
man-in-Europe collar and cravat, cheeks drawn 
in as if he had made a great effort to retire into 
himself some years ago, and had got so far and 
had never got any farther. Reflects mature 
young lady; raven locks, and complexion that 
lights up well when. well powdered—as it is— 
carrying on considerably in the captivation of 
mature young gentleman; with too much nose 
in his face, too much ginger in his whiskers, too 
much torso in his waistcoat, too much sparkle 
in his studs, his eyes, his buttons, his talk, and 
his tecth. Reflects charming old Lady Tippins 
on Veneering’s right; with an immense obtuse 
drab oblong face, like a face in a table-spoon, 
and a dyed Long Walk up to the top of her 
head, as a convenient public approach to the 
bunch of false hair behind, pleased to patronize 
Mrs. Veneering opposite, who is pleased to be 
patronized. Reflects a certain ‘¢ Mortimer,” an- 
other of Veneering’s oldest friends; who never 
was in the house before, and appears not to want 
to come again, who sits disconsolate on Mrs. 
Veneering’s left, and who was inveigled by Lady 
Tippins (a friend of his boyhood) to come to 
these people’s and talk, and who won’t talk. 
Reflects Eugene, friend of Mortimer; buried 
alive in the back of his chair, behind a shoulder 
—with a powder-epaulet on it—of the mature 
young lady, and gloomily resorting to the Cham- 
pagne chalice whenever proftered by the Ana- 
lytical Chemist. Lastly, the looking-glass re- 
flects Boots and Brewer, and: two other stuffed 
Buffers interposed between the rest of the com- 
pany and possible accidents. 

The Veneering dinners are excellent dinners 
—or new people wouldn’t come—and all goes 
well. 
of experiments on her digestive functions, so 
extremely complicated and daring, that if they 
could be published with their results it might 
benefit the human race. Having taken in pro- 
visions from all parts of the world, this hardy 
old cruiser has last touched at the North Pole, 
when, as the ice-plates are being removed, the 
following words fall from her: ; 

‘*T assure you, my dear Veneering—” 

(Poor Twemlow’s hand approaches his fore- 
head, for it would seem now that Lady Tippins 
is going to be the oldest friend. ) 

‘*T assure you, my dear Veneering, that it is 
the oddest affair! Like the advertising people, 
I don’t ask you to trust me without offering a 
respectable reference. Mortimer there, is my 
reference, and knows all about it.” 

Mortimer raises his drooping eyelids, and 
slightly opens his mouth. But a faint smile, 
expressive of ‘‘ What’s the use!’ passes over his 
face, and he drops his eyelids and shuts his mouth, 

‘‘Now, Mortimer,” says Lady. Tippins, rap- 


« 


Notably, Lady Tippins has made a series. 


ad 


ping the sticks of her closed green fan upon the | 


knuckles of her left hand—which is particularly 
rich in knuckles, ‘‘I insist upon your telling all 
that is to be told about the man from Jamaica.” 
“‘Give you my honor I never heard of any 
man from Jamaica, except the man who was a 
brother,” replies Mortimer. © 
“*'Tobago, then.” 


a 


igi 


me¢,..my—texe,” to Mrs. Veneering, 


22 -- QUR MUTUAL FRIEND. Bia 


‘¢ Nor yet from Tobago.” 

‘¢ Except,”’ Eugene strikes in: so unexpected- 
ly that the mature young Jady, who has forgot- 
ten all about him, with a start takes the epaulet 
out of his way: ‘‘except our friend who long 
lived on ricé-pudding and isinglass, till at length 


-to his something or other, his physician said 


something else, and a leg of mutton somehow 
ended in daygo.” 

A reyiving impréssion goes round the table 
that Eugene is coming out. An unfulfilled im- 
pression, for he goes in again. 

‘‘ Now, my dear Mrs. Veneering,”’ quoth Lady 
Tippins, ‘‘I appeal to you whether this is not 
the basest conduct ever known in this world ? 
I carry my lovers about, two or three at a time, 
on condition that they are very obedient and de- 
voted; and here is my old lover-in-chief, the 
head of all my slaves, throwing off his allegiance 
before company. And here is another of my 
lovers, a rough Cymon at present certainly, but 
of whom I[ had most hopeful expectations as to 
his turning out well in course of time, pretend- 
ing that he can’t remember his nursery rhymes! 


On purpose to annoy me, for he knows how I! 


dote upon them!” 

A ghastly little fiction concerning her lovers 
is Lady Tippins’s point. She is always attended 
by a lover or two, and she keeps a little list of 
her lovers, and she is always booking a new 
lover, or striking out an old lover, or putting a 


~ Jover in her black list, or promoting a lover to 


her blue list, or adding up her lovers, or oth- 
erwise posting her book. Mrs. Veneering is 
charmed by the humor, and so is Veneering. 
Perhaps it is enhanced by a certain yellow play 
in Lady Tippins’s throat, like the legs of scratch- 
ing poultry. 

‘*T banish the false wretch from this moment, 
and I strike him out of my Cupidon (my name 
for my Ledger, my dear,) this very night. But 


I am resolved to have_t he man 
from So and I beg you to elicit it for 


‘as I have 
lost my own influence. Oh, you perjured man!” 
This to Mortimer, with a rattle of her fan. 

‘¢ We are all very much interested in the man 
from Somewhere,” Veneering observes. 

Then the four Buffers, taking heart of grace 
all four at once, say: 

‘< Deeply interested !” 

‘¢ Quite excited !” 

*¢ Dramatic !” 

‘‘Man from Nowhere, perhaps 

And then Mrs. Veneering—for Lady Tip- 
pins’s winning wiles are contagious—folds her 
hands in the manner of a supplicating child, 
turns to her left neighbor, and says, ‘‘' Tease! 
Pay! Man from Tumwhere!” At which the 
four Buffers, again mysteriously moved all four 
at once, exclaim, ‘*‘ You can’t resist !” 

“‘Upon my life,” says Mortimer languidly, 
‘T find it immensely embarrassing to have the 
eyes of Europe upon me to this extent, and my 
only consolation is that you will all of you exe- 
crate Lady Tippins in your secret hearts when 
you find, as you inevitably will, the man from 
Somewhere a bore. Sorry to destroy romance 
by fixing him with a local habitation, but he 
comes from the place, the name of which es- 
capes me, but will suggest itself to every body 
else here, where they make the wine.” 


9? 


Eugene suggests ‘‘ Day and Martin’s.” 

‘‘No, not that place,” returns the unmoved 
Mortimer, ‘‘that’s where they make the Port. © 
My man comes from the country where they — 
make the Cape Wine. But look here, old fellow ; 
it’s not at all statistical and it’s rather odd.” : 

It is always noticeable at the table of the — 
Veneerings, that no man troubles himself much 
about the Veneerings themselves, and that any 
one who has any thing to tell, generally tells it _ 
to any body else in preference. 

‘‘The man,” Mortimer goes on, addressing 
Eugene, ‘‘whose name is Harmon, was_ only 
son of a tremendous old rascal who made his 
money by Dust.” 

‘Red velveteens and a bell?” the gloomy Eu- 
gene inquires. 

‘* And a ladder and basket if you like. By 
which means, or by others, he grew rich as a 
Dust Contractor, and lived in a hollow in a 
hilly country entirely composed of Dust. On his 
own small estate the growling old vagabond 
threw up his own mountain range, like an old 
volcano, and its geological formation was Dust. 
Coal-Dust, vegetable-dust, bone-dust, crockery 
dust, rough dust and dust sifted—all manner of 
Dust.” mY 

A passing remembrance of Mrs. Veneering, 
here induces Mortimer to address his next half- 
dozen words to her; after which he wanders 
away again, tries Twemlow and finds he doesn’t ~~ 
answer, ultimately takes up with the Buffers who 
receive him enthusiastically. le 

‘¢The moral being—I believe that’s the right 
expression—of this exemplary person, deriy 
its highest gratification from anathematizing 
nearest relations and turning them out of do 
Having begun (as was natural) by renderr 
these attentions to the wife of his bosom, he next” 
found himself at leisure’to bestow a similar rec-” 
ognition on the claims of his daughter. He 
chose a husband for her, entirely to his own 
satisfaction and not in the least to hers, and pro- 
ceeded to settle upon her, as her marriage por 
tion, I don’t know how much Dust, but somes 
thing immense. At this stage of the affair 
poor girl respectfully intimated that she was 
cretly engaged to that popular character wh 
the novelists and versifiers calt Another 
that such a marriage would make Dust 
heart and Dust of her life—in short, wo 
her up, on a very extensive scale, in her fathe 
business. Immediately, the venerable parent— 
on a cold winter’s night, it is said—anathema- 
tized and turned her out.” f 

Here, the Analytical Chemist, (who has evi- 
dently formed avery low opinion of Mortimer’s 
story) concedes a little claret to the Buffers; — 
who, again mysteriously moved all four at once, 
screw it slowly into themselves with a peculiar 
twist of enjoyment, as they cry in chorus, ‘‘ Pray 
go on.” 

‘“'The pecuniary resources of Another were, 
as they usually are, of a very limited nature. [, 
believe I am not using too strong an expression 
when I say that Another was very hard up. 
However, he married the young lady, and they 
lived in an humble dwelling, probably possessing 
a porch ornamented with honey-suckle and wood- 
bine twining, until she died. I must refer you 
to the Registrar of the District in which the hum- 
ble dwelling was situated, for the certified cause 


<4 


‘ OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — 


of death; but early sorrow and. anxiety, may 
have had to do with it, though they may not ap- 
pear in the ruled pages and printed forms. In- 
disputably this was the case with Another, for he 
‘Was so cut up by the loss of his young wife that 
if he outlived her a year it was as much as he 
did.” 

~ There is that in the indolent Mortimer, which 


seems to hint that if good society might on any 


-stantly, he absconded, and came over here. 
: bi 3: 


with great pains, but it is in him. 


account allow itself to be impressible, he, one of 
good society, might have the weakness to be im- 
pressed by what he here relates. It is hidden 
The gloomy 
Eugene too, is not without some kindred touch ; 
for when that appalling Lady Tippins. declares 
that if Another had survived, he should: have 


gone down at the head of her list of lovers—and 


also when the mature young lady shrugs her 
epaulets, and laughs at some private and con- 
fidential comment from the mature young gen- 
tleman—his gloom deepens to that degree that 
he trifles quite ferociously with his dessert-knife. 

Mortimer proceeds. 

** We must now return, as the novelists say, 
and as we all wish they wouldn’t, to the man 
from. Somewhere. Being a boy of fourteen, 
‘Cheaply educated at Brussels when his sister’s 
expulsion befell, it was some little time before 
he heard of it—probably from herself, for the 
mother was dead; but that I don’t know. In- 
He 
must have been a boy of spirit and resource, to 
get here on a stopped allowance of five sous a 
week; but he did it somehow, and he burst in 


‘on his father, and pleaded hissister’s cause. 


Venerable parent promptly resorts to anathema- 
tization, and turns him.out of doors. Shocked 
and tettified boy takes flight, seeks his fortune, 


‘gets aboard ship, ultimately, turns up on dry land 


/among the Cape wine: a small proprietor, farm- 
er, grower—whatever you like to call it.” 
At this juncture, shuffling is heard in the hall, 
and tapping is heard at the dining-room door. 
Analytical Chemist goes to the door, confers an- 
grily with unseen tapper, appears to become mol- 
ified by descrying reason in the tapping, and 
goes out. 
__“So he was discovered, only the other day, 
after having almost doubled his age; that is 
to say, after having expatriated about fourteen 
years.) 3 

_ A Buffer, suddenly astounding the other three, 
by detaching himself, and asserting individuali- 
ty, inquires: ‘‘ How discovered, and why ?” 

“Ah! Tobe sure. Thank you for remind- 
ing me. Venerable parent dies.” 

The same Buffer, emboldened by success, 
says: ‘* When?” 

‘The other day. Ten or twelve months ago.” 

The same Buffer inquires with smartness, 
**What of?” But herein perishes a melancholy 
example ; being regarded by the three other Buf- 
fers with a stony stare, and attracting no further 
attention from any mortal. 

** Venerable parent,” Mortimer repeats with a 

passing remembrance that there is a Veneering 
at table, and for the first time addressing him— 
** dies.” 
_ The gratified Veneering repeats, gravely, 
‘dies ;” and folds his arms, and composes his 
brew to hear it out in a judicial manner, when he 
finds himself again deserted in the bleak world. 


23 


‘His will is found,” says Mortimer, catching 


Mrs. Podsnay’s rocking-horse’s eye. ‘It is 
dated very soon after the son’s flight. It leaves 


the lowest of the range of dust-mountains, with 
some sort of a dwelling-house at its foot, to an 
servant who is sole executor, and all the rest 


of the property—which is very considerable—to 
the son. He directs himself to be buried with 
certain eccentric ceremonies and precautions 
against his coming to life, with which I need 
not bore you, and that’s all—except—” and 
this ends the story. 

The Analytical Chemist returning, every body 
looks at him. Not because any body wants to 
see him, but because of that subtle influence in 
nature which impels humanity to embrace the 


slightest opportunity of looking at any thing 


rather than the person who addresses it. 
‘*-—-Exeept-that the son's inheriting is made 
conditional on his marrying a girl, who atthe 
date of the will was a child of four years old or 
so, and who is now a marriageable young_wo- 


man. Advertisement and inquiry discovered the — 


son in a man from Somewhere, and at the pres- 
ent moment he is on his way home from there— 
no doubt, in a state of great astonishment—ta sne- 
ceed to a very large fortune, and to take a wife:” 
- Mrs. Podsnap inquires whether the young per- 
son is a young person of personal charms? Mor- 
timer is unable to report. 

Mr. Podsnap inquires what would become of 
| the very large fortune, in the event of the mar- 
|riage condition not being fulfilled? Mortimer 

replies, that by special testamentary clause it 
would then go to the old servant above mention- 
ed, passing over and excluding the son; also, that 
if that son had not been living, the same old serv- 
ant would have been sole residuary legatee. 

Mrs. Veneering has just succeeded in waking 

Lady Tippins from a snore, by dextrously shunt- 
ing a train of plates and dishes at her knuckles 
across the table; when every body but Morti- 
mer himself becomes aware that the Analyticat 
Chemist is, in a ghostly manner, offering him a 
folded paper. Curiosity detains Mrs. Veneering 
a few moments. 

Mortimer, in spite of all the arts of the chemist, 
placidly refreshes himself with a glass of Madei- 
ra, and remains unconscious of the document 
which engrosses the general attention, until Lady 
Tippins (who has a habit of waking totally in- 
sensible), having remembered where she is, and 
recovered a perception of surrounding objects, 
says: ‘‘ Falser man than Don Juan; why don’t 
you take the note from the Commendatore ?” 
Upon which, the chemist advances it under the 
nose of Mortimer, who looks round at him, an 
says: | ; 

‘¢ What’s this ?” 

Analytical Chemist bends and whispers. 

‘Who ?” says Mortimer. 

Analytical Chemist again bends and whispers. 

Mortimer stares at him and unfolds the paper. 
Reads it, reads it twice, turns it over to look at 
the blank outside, reads it a third time. 

‘¢ This arrives in an extraordinarily opportune 
manner,” says Mortimer then, looking with an 


altered face round the table: ‘‘this is the con-. 


clusion of the story of the identical man.” 
‘¢ Already married ?” one guesses, 
‘¢Declines to marry ?” another guesses. 
‘‘Codicil among the dust ?” another guesses. 


24 


‘¢Why, no,” says Mortimer; ‘‘ remarkable 
thing, you are all wrong. ‘The story is complet- 
er and rather more exciting than I supposed. 
Man’s drowned !” . 


ee 


CHAPTER III. 
ANOTHER MAN. 


As the disappearing skirts of the ladies ascend- 
ed the Veneering staircase, Mortimer, following 
them forth from the dining-room, turned-into a 
back library of bran-new books, in bran-new bind- 
iizs liberally gilded, and requested to see the 
in ‘ssenger who had brought the paper. He wasa 
boy of about fifteen. Mortimer looked at the boy, 
and the boy looked at the bran-new pilgrims on 
the wall, going to Canterbury in more gold frame 
than procession, and more carving than country, 

‘¢ Whose writing is this ?” 

Mine, Sir.” 

“Who told you-to write it ?” 

iss My father, Jesse Hexam.” 

‘“Ts it he who found the body ?” 

aSTY eS Sirs” 

‘‘ What is your father ?” 

The boy hesitated, looked reproachfully at the 
pilgrims as if they had involved him in a little 
difficulty, then said, folding a plait in the right 
leg of his trowsers, ‘‘ He gets his living along- 
shore.” 

“Ts it far ?” 

‘*Ts which far ?” asked the boy, upon his guard, 
and again upon the road to Canterbury. 

“To your father’s ?” 

‘¢ It’s a goodish stretch, Sir. Icame up in a 
cab, and the cab’s waiting to be paid. We could 
go back in it before you paid it, if you liked. I 
went first to your office, according to the direc- 
tion of the papers found in the pockets, and there 
I see nobody but a chap of about my age vie 

sent me on here.” 

Tftere was a curious mixture in the boy, of un- 

completed savagery, and uncompleted ‘civiliza- 
tion. His voice was hoarse and coarse, and his 
face was coarse, and his,stunted figure was 
coarse; but he was cleaner than other boys of 
his type; and his writing, though large and 
round, was good; and he glanced at the backs 
of the books with an awakened curiosity that 
went below the binding. No one who can read 
ever locks at a book, even unopened on a shelf, 
like one who can not. 

“« Were any means taken, do you know, boy, 
to ascertain if it was possible to restore life?” 
Mortimer inquired, as he sought for his hat. 

“You wouldn’t ask, Sir, if you knew his state. 
Pharaoh’s multitude that were drowned in the 
Red Sea, ain’t more beyond restoring to life. 
If Lazarus was only half as far gone, that was 
the greatest of all the miracles.” 

“¢ Halloa!” cried Mortimer, turning round with 
his hat upon his head, “ you ‘seem to be at home 
in the Red Sea, my young friend ?” 

“Read of it with teacher at the school,” said 
the boy. 

. “ And Lazarus ?” 

“Yes, and him too. But don’t 3 vou tell my 
father! We should have no peace in our place 
if that pot touched upon. It’s my sister’s con- 
triving.” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | cata 


‘*You seem to have a good sister.” 
**She ain’t half bad,” said the boy ; 


‘but if 


she knows her letters it’s the most she does—and : 


them I learned her.” 


The gloomy Eugene, with his hands in his — 


pockets, had strolled in and assisted at the lat- 
ter part of the dialogue; when the boy spoke 


these words slightingly of his sister, he took him ~ 


roughly enough by the chin, and turned up his 
face to look at it. 


‘¢ Well, ’'m sure, Sir !” said the boy, resisting ; 


‘*T hope you'll know me again.” 

Eugene vouchsafed no answer ; 
proposal to Mortimer, ‘‘I’ll go with you, if you 
like ?” 
in the vehicle that had brought the boy ; the two 


friends (once boys together at a public school) 


ea 


but made the © 


So, they all three went away together ~ 


inside, smoking cigars; the boy on the box be- | 


side the driver. 
‘‘Let me see,” said Mortimer, as they went 
along; ‘‘I have been, Eugene, upon the honor- 


able roll of solicitors of the High Court of Chan- — 


cery, and attorneys at Common Law, five years; 


and—except gratuitously taking instructions on 
an average once a fortnight, for the will of 
Lady Tippins, who has nothing to leave—I have 
had no scrap of business but this romantic busi- 
ness.” 

“ And I,” said Eugene, ‘‘have been ‘ called’ 


seven years, and have had no business at all, and — 


never shall have any. And if I had, I shouldn’t 
know how to do it.” 


“T am far from being clear as to the last 


particular,’ returned Mortimer, with great com- 


posure, ‘‘ that I have much advantage over you.” — 


**T hate,” said Eugene, putting his legs up on 
the opposite seat, ‘‘I hate my profession.” 

‘Shall I incommode you, if I put mine up 
too?” returned Mortimer. ‘Thank you. I 
hate mine.” 

‘‘It was forced upon me,” said the gloomy 
Eugene, “because it was understood that we 
wanted a barrister in the family. We have got 
a precious one.” 

‘‘It was forced upon me,” said Mortimer, 
‘“because it was understood that we wanted a 
solicitor in the family. And we have got a 
precious one.’ 


‘‘ There are four of us, with our names paint-. 


ed on a door-post in right of one black hole 


called a set of chambers,” said Eugene; ‘‘and — 


each of us has the fourth of a clerk—Cassim 
Baba, in the robber’s cave—and Cassim is the 
only respectable member of the party.” 

“‘T am one by myself, one,” said Mortimer, 


‘high up an awful staircase commanding a 


burial-ground; and I have a whole clerk to 
myself, and he has nothing to do but look at 


the burial-ground, and what he will turn out — 


when arrived at maturity I can not conceive. 
Whether, in that shabby rook’s nest, he is always 
plotting wisdom, or plotting murder; whether 


he will grow up, after so much solitary brood-_— 


ing, to enlighten his fellow-creatures, or to poison 


them; is the only speck of interest that presents - 


itself to my professional view. 
me alight? Thank you.” 
‘¢ Then idiots talk,” said Eugene, leaning back, 


Will you give 


folding his arms, smoking with his eyes shut, — 


and speaking slightly through his nose, *‘of En- 
ergy. If there is a word in the dictionary un~ 


{der any letter from A to Z that I abominate, it 


ae 
i 
ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


is energy. It is such a conventional supersti- 
» tion, such parrot gabble! What the deuce! 

- Am I to rush out into the street, collar the first 
man of a wealthy appearance that I meet, shake 

. him, and say, ‘Go to law upon the spot, you 

“dog, and retain me, or I'll be the death of you ?’ 
Yet that would be energy.” 

*¢ Precisely my view of the case, Eugene, But 
show me a good opportunity, show me some- 
thing really worth being energetic about, and 
Ili show you energy.” 

** And’so will I,” said Eugene. 

And it is likely enough that ten thousand 
other young men, within the limits of the London 
Post-office town delivery, made the same hope- 
ful remark in the course of the same evening. 

The wheels rolled on, and rolled down by the 

~Monument and the Tower, and by the Docks; 
down by Ratcliffe, and by Rotherhithe ;: down 
by where accumulated scum of humanity seemed 
to be washed from higher grounds, like so much 
moral sewage, and to be pausing until its own 
hveighit forced it over the bank and sunk it, in the 
river. In and out among ships that seemed to 
lave got ashore, and houses that seemed to have 
ot afloat—among bowsprits staring into win- 
lows, and windows, staring into water —the 
wheels rolled on, until they stopped at a dark cor- 
ner, river-washed and otherwise not washed at all, 
where the boy alighted and opened the door. 

‘*You must walk the rest, Sir; it’s not many 
yards.”” He spoke in the singular number, to 
the express exclusion of Eugene. 

‘*This is a confoundedly out-of-the-way 
place,” said Mortimer, slipping over the stones 
and refuse on the shore, as the boy turned the 
coricr sharp. 

“‘Here’s my father’s, Sir; where the light is.” 

The low building had the look of having once 
been a mill. There was a rotten wart of wood 

upon its forehead that seemed to indicate where 
the sails had been, but the whole was very indis- 
tinctly seen in the obscurity of the night. The 
boy lifted the latch of the door, and they passed 
at once into a low circular room, where a man 
stood before a red fire, looking down into it, and 
a girl sat engaged in needle-work. ‘The fire was 
‘In arusty brazier, not fitted to the hearth; and 
a common Jamp, shaped like a hyacinth-root, 
smoked and flared in the neck of a stone bottle 
on the table. There was a wooden bunk or 
berth in a corner, and in another corner a wood- 
en stair leading above—so clumsy and steep that 
it was little better than a ladder. ‘Two or three 
old sculls and oars stood against the wall, and 
against another part of the wall was a small 
dresser, making a spare show of the commonest 
articles of crockery and cooking-vessels. The 
. ‘roof of the room was not. plastered, but was 
formed of the flooring of the room above. This, 
being very old, knotted, seamed and beamed, 
gave a lowering aspect to the chamber; and 
roof, and walls, and floor, alike abounding in 
old smears of flour, red-lead (or some such stain 
which it had probably acquired in warehousing), 
and damp, alike had a look of decomposition. 

‘*The gentleman, father.” ’ 

The figure at the red fire turned, raised its 
_ ruffled head, and looked like a bird of prey. 

“You're Mortimer Lightwood, Esquire; are 
. you, Sir?” 
**Mortimer Lightwood is my name. 


What. 


25. 


you found,” said Mortimer, glancing rather 
shrinkingly toward the bunk; ‘‘is it here?” 

‘*"Tain’t not to say here, but it’s close by. IT 
do every thing reg’lar. I’ve giv’ notice of the 
circumstarnce to the police, and the police have 
took possession of it. No time ain’t been lost, 
on any hand. ‘The police have put it into print 
already, and here’s what the print says of it.” 

Taking up the bottle with the lamp in it, he 
held it near a paper on the wall, with the police 
heading, Founp Drownep. ‘The two friends 
read the hand-bill as it stuck against the wall, 
and Gaffer read them as he held the light. 

‘Only papers on the unfortunate man, I see,” 
said Lightwood, glancing from the description 
of what was found, to the finder. 

‘*Only papers.” 

Here the girl arose with her work in her hand, 
and went out at the door. 

‘* No money,” pursued Mortimer; ‘but three- 
pence in one of the skirt-pockets.” 

‘“Three. Penny. Pieces,’ said Gaffer Hex- 
am, in as many sentences, 

‘‘The trowsers pockets empty, and turned in- 
side out.” 

Gaffer Hexam nodded. ‘But that’s common. 
Whether it’s the wash of the tide or no, I can’t 
say. Now, here,” moving the light to another 
Found Drowned placard, ‘‘ his pockets was found 
empty, and turned inside out. And here,” mov- 
ing the light to another, ‘‘ her pocket was found 
empty, and turned inside out. And so was this 
one’s. And so was that one’s. I can’t read, 
nor I don’t want to it, for I know ’em by their 
places on the wall. This one was a sailor, with 
two anchors and a flag and G. F. T. on his arm. 
Look and see if he warn’t.” 

*¢ Quite right.” 

‘*This one was the young woman in gray 
boots, and her linen marked with a cross. Look 
and see if she warn’t.” 

** Quite right.” . 

“This is him as had a nasty cut over the eye. 
This is them two young sisters what tie@ them- 
selves together with’ a handkecher. This is the 
drunken old chap, in a pair of ‘list slippers and 
a night-cap, wot had offered—it afterward come 
out—to make a hole in the water for a quartern © 
of rum stood aforehand, and kept to his word for 
the first and last time in his life. They pretty 
well papers the room, you see; but I know ’em 
all. I’m scholar enough!” 

He waved the light over the whole, as if to 
typify the light of his scholarly intelligence, and 
then put it down on the table and stood behind 
it looking intently at his visitors. He had the spe- 
cial peculiarity of some birds of prey, that when 
he knitted his brow his ruffled crest stood highest. 
- “You did not find all these yourself; did 
you?” asked Eugene. 

To which the bird of prey slowly rejoined, 
‘¢ And what might your name be, now ?” 

‘“This is my friend,” Mortimer Lightwood 
interposed; ‘‘ Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.” 

“Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, is it? And what 
might Mr. Eugene Wrayburn have asked of me?” 

‘*T asked you, simply, if you found all these 
yourself?” 

‘*T answer you, simply, most on ’em.”” 

**Do you suppose there has been much vio- 
Jence and robbery, beforehand, among-.these 
cases ?” ate 


26 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘T don’t suppose at all about it,” returned 
Gaffer. ‘I ain’t one of the supposing sort. If 
you'd got your living to haul out of the river 
every day of your life, you mightn’t be much 
given to supposing. Am I to show the way ?” 

As he opened the door, in pursuance of a nod 
from Lightwood, an extremely pale and dis- 
turbed face appeared in the doorway—the face 
of a man much agitated. 

‘A body missing?” ‘asked Gaffer Hexam, 
stopping short; ‘Sor a body found? Which?” 

**T am lost,” replied the man, in a hurried 
and an eager manner. 

‘SEostt” 

““J_J—-am a stranger, and don’t know the 
way. I—I—want to find the place where I can 

se2 what is described here. It is possible I may 
cise it.” He was panting, and could hardly 
speak; but, he showed a copy of the newly- 
printed bill that was still wet upon the wall. 
Perhaps its newness, or perhaps the accuracy of 
his observation of its general look, guided Gaffer 
to a ready conclusion. 

“This gentleman, Mr. Lightwood, is on that 
business.” 

‘Mr. Lightwood ?” 

During a pause, Mortimer and the stranger 
confronted each other. Neither knew the other. 

‘*[ think, Sir,” said Mortimer, breaking the 
awkward silence with his airy self-possession, 
‘that you did me the honor to mention my 
name ?” 

**T repeated it, after this man.” 

*¢You said you were a stranger in London?” 

** An utter stranger.” 

‘* Are you seeking a Mr. Harmon ?” 

aN Oa), 

“Then I believe I can assure you that you are 
on a fruitless errand, and will not find what you 
fear to find. Will you come with us ?” 

A little winding through some muddy alleys 
that might have been deposited by the last ill- 
savored tide, brought them to the wicket-gate 
and bright lamp of a Police Station; where they 
found the Night-Inspector, with a pen and ink, 
and ruler, posting up his books in a whitewashed 
office, as studiously as if he were in a monastery 
on the top of a mountain, and no howling fury 
of a drunken woman were banging herself against 
a cell-door in the back-yard at his elbow. With 
the same air of a recluse much given to study, 
he desisted from his books to bestow a distrust- 
ful nod of recognition upon Gaffer, plainly im- 
porting, ‘‘ Ah! we know all about you, and you’ll 
overdo it some day ;’’ and to inform Mr. Morti- 
mer Lightwood and friends, that he would at- 
tend them immediately. Then, he finished 
ruling the work he had in hand (it might have 
been illuminating a missal, he was so calm), in 
a very neat and methodical manner, showing 
not the slightest consciousness of the woman who 
~ was banging herself with increased violence, and 
shrieking most terrifically for some other wo- 
man’s liver. 

‘¢ A bull’s-eye,” said the Night-Inspector, tak- 
ing up his keys. Which a deferential satellite 
produced. ‘* Now, gentlemen.” 

With one of his keys he opened a cool grot at 
the end of the yard, and they all went in. They 
quickly came out again, no one speaking but 
Eugene: who remarked to Mortimer, in a whis- 
per, ‘‘ Not zuch worse than Lady Tippins.” 

A 


So, back to the whitewashed library of the 
monastery—with that liver still in shrieking reqs 
uisition, as it had been loudly, while they looked 
at the silent sight they came to see—and there 


through the merits of the case as summed up by 
No clew to how body came into. 


the Abbot. 
river, Very often..was.no clew. Too late to 
know for certain, whether injuries received be- 
fore or after death; one excellent surgical opin- 
ion said, before; other excellent surgical opin- 
ion said, after. Steward of ship in which gen- 
tleman came home passenger, had been round to 
view, and had no doubt of identity. Likewise 
could swear to clothes. And then, you see, you 
had the papers, too. How was it he had totally 
disappeared on leaving ship, ’till found in river ? 
Well! Probably had been upon some little game. 
Probably thought it a harmless game, wasn’t up 
to things, and it turned out a fatal game. In- 
quest to-morrow, and no doubt open verdict. 

‘Tt appears to have knocked your friend over 
—knocked him completely off his legs,’’\Mr. In- 
spector remarked, when he had finished his sum- 
ming up. ‘It has given him a bad turn to be 
sure!” This was said in a very low voice, and 
with a searching look (not the first he had east) 
at the stranger. 

Mr. Lightwood explained that it was no friend 
of his. 

‘¢Indeed?” said Mr. Inspector, with an at- 
tentive ear; ‘‘where did you pick him up?” 

Mr. Lightwood. explained further. 

Mr. Inspector had delivered his summing up, 
and had added these words, with his elbows lean- 
ing on his desk, and the fingers and thumb of his 
right hand, fitting themselves to the fingers and 
thumb of his left. Mr. Inspector moved nothing 
but his eyes, as he now added, raising his voice: 

‘‘Turned you faint, Sir! Seems you’re not 
accustomed to this kind of work ?” 

~The stranger, who was leaning against the 
chimney-piece with drooping head, looked round 
and answered, ‘‘No. It’s a horrible sight!” 

‘*You expected to identify, Iam told, Sir?” 

ay eae, 

‘* Tave you identified ?” 

‘*No. It’s a horrible sight. 
horrible sight!” 

““Who did you think it might have been?” 
asked Mr. Inspector. 
Sir. Perhaps we can help you.” 

‘““No, no,” said the stranger; ‘‘it would be 
quite useless. Good-night.” 

Mr. Inspector had not moved, and had given no 
order; but the satellite slipped his back against 
the wicket, and laid his Jeft arm along the top 
of it, and with his right hand turned the bull’s- 
eye he had taken from his chief—in quite 4 cas- 
ual manner—toward the stranger. 

““You. missed a friend, you know; or you 
missed_a foe, you know; or you wouldn’t have 
come here, you know. 
sonable to ‘ask, who was. it?” 
spector. 

‘*You must excuse my telling you. No class 
of man can understand better than you, that 
families may ‘not choose to publish their disa- 


Oh! a horrible, 


4; Thus, Mr. In- 


greements and*misfortunes, except upon the.last__ 


necessity” I do not dispute that you discharge 
your duty in asking me the question; you will 
not dispute my right to withhold the answer. 
Good-night.” " 


‘*Give us a description, - 


Well, then ; ain’t it rea- — 


— 


a ee 


a 


ee Se ee ee 


ON a eee ee 


ee 


: 
’ 
' 
j 
; 


ee ee ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


_ Again he turned toward the wicket, where the 
satellite, with his eye upon his chief, remained a 
dumb statue. : 

** At least,” said Mr. Inspector, ‘‘ you will not 
object to leave me your card, Sir?” 

**T should not object, if [had one; but I have 
not.” He reddened’ and was much confused as 
he gave the answer. _ 

“* At least,”’ said Mr. Inspector, with no change 
of voice or manner, ‘‘ you will not object to write 
down your name and address ?” 

““Not at all.” 

Mr. Inspector dipped a pen in his inkstand, and 
softly laid it on a piece of.paper close beside him; 
then resumed his former attitude. The stranger 
stepped up to the desk, and wrote in a rather 
tremulous hand—Mr. Inspector taking sidelong 
note of every hair of his head when it was bent 
‘down for the purpose—* Mr. Julius Handford, 
Exchequer Coffee-House, Palace Yard, West- 
minster.” 

‘* Staying there, I presume, Sir ?”’ 

‘Staying there.” 

‘<Consequently, from the country ?” 

“Eh? Yes—from the country.” 

** Good-night, Sir.” 

The satellite removed his arm and opened the 
wicket, and Mr. Julius Handford went out. 

** Reserve!” said Mr.Inspector. ‘‘ Take care 
of this piece of paper, keep him in view with- 
out giving offense, ascertain that he is staying 

there, and find out any thing you can about 
him.” 

The satellite was gone; and Mr. Inspector, 
hecoming once again the quiet Abbot of that 
Monastery, dipped his pen in his ink and re- 
sumed his books. The two friends who had 
watched him, more amused by the professional 
manner than suspicious of Mr. Julius Handford, 
inquired before taking their departure too wheth- 
er he believed there was any thing that really 
looked bad here? 

The Abbot replied with reticence, ‘* Couldn’t 

say. Ifa murder, any body might have done it. 
Burglary or pocket- picking wanted ’prenticeship. 
‘ Not so, murder. We were all of us up to that. 
Had seen scores of people come to identify, and 
neyer saw one person struck in that particular 
way. Might, however, have been Stomach, and 
not Mind. Ifso,rum stomach. But to be sure 
there were rum every things. Pity there was 
not a word of truth in that superstition about 
hodies bleeding when touched by the right hand; 
you never got asign out of bodies. You got row 
enough out of such as her—she was good for all 
night now” (referring here to the banging de- 
mands for the liver), ‘‘ but you got nothing out 
of bodies if it was ever so.” 

There being nothing more to be done until the 
_ Inquest was held next day, the friends went away 
together, and Gaffer Hex: am and his son went 
their separate way. But, arriving at the last 
corner, Gaffer bade his boy go home. while he 
turned into a red-curtained tavern, that stood 
dr opsically bulging over the aint causeway, ‘for 
a half-a-pint.” 

The boy lifted the latch he had lifted before, 
and found his sister again seated before the fire 
at her work. Who raised her head upon his 
coming in and asking: 

“Where did you go, Liz?” 

**T went out in the dark.” 


‘There was no necessity for that. 
right enough.” 

‘*One of the gentlemen, the one who didn’t 
speak while I was there, looked hard at me. 
And I was afraid he might know what my face 
meant. But there! Don’ t mind me, Charley! 
I was all in a tremble of another sort ‘when you: 
owned to father you could write a little.” : 

‘‘Ah! But I made believe I wrote so badly, 
as that it was odds-if any one could read it. 
And when I wrote slowest and smeared out with 
my finger most, father was best pleased, as he 
stood looking over me.” 

The girl put aside her work, and drawing her 
seat close to his seat by the fire, laid her arm 
gently on his shoulder. 

** You'll make the most of your time, Charley ; 


It was all 


| won’t you?” 


*“Wontl? Come! Ilike that. Don’t 12” 
‘Yes, Charley, yes. You work hard at your 
learning, Iknow. And I work a little, Charley, 
and plan and contrive a little (wake out of my 
sleep contriving sometimes), how to get together 
a shilling now, and a shilling then, that shall 
make father believe you are beginning to earn a 
stray living along shore.” : 
‘*You are father’s favorite, and can make him 
believe any thing.” . 
“‘T wish I could, Charley! For if I could 
make him believe that learning was a good thing, 


'and that we might lead better lives, I should’ be 
|a’most content to die.” 


**Don’t talk stuff about dying, Liz.” 

She placed her hands in one another on his 
shoulder, and laving her rich brown cheek 
against them as she looked down at the fire, 


| went on thoughtfully : 


‘‘Of an evening, Charley, when you are at 
the school, and father’s—”’ 

‘“‘At the Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters,” the 
boy struck in, with a backward nod of his head 
toward the public house. 

‘Yes. Then as I sit a-looking at the fire, I 
seem to see in the burning coal—like where that 
glow is now—” 

‘“'That’s gas, that is,” said the boy, ‘‘coming 
out of a bit of a forest that’s been under the mud 
that was under the water in the days of Noah’s * 
Ark. Look here! When I take the poker—so 


—and give it a dig—” 


** Don’t disturb it, Charley, or it'll be all in a , 
blaze. It’s that dull glow near it, coming and 
going, that I mean. When [ look at it of an 
evening, it comes like pictures to me, Charley.” | 

‘¢ Show us a picture,” said the boy. ‘* Tell us 


| where to look.” 


‘¢Ah! It wants my eyes, Charley.” 

‘‘Cut away then, and tell us what your eyes 
make of it.” & 

‘¢Why, there are you and me, Charley, when 
you. were quite a baby that never knew a mo- 
ther—” 

“¢Don’t go saying I never knew a mothe 
interposed the boy, “‘for I knew a little sister 
that was sister and mother both.” 

The girl laughed delightedly, and her eyes 
filled with pleasant tears, as he put both his 
arms round her waist and so held her. 

‘¢There are yon and me, Charley, when fa- 
ther was away at work and locked us out, for 
fear we should set ourselves afire or fall out of 
| window, sitting on the door-sill, sitting on other 


r Y 


door-steps, sitting on the bank of the river, wan- 
dering about to get through the time. You are 
rather heavy to carry, Charley, and I am often 
obliged to rest. Sometimes we are sleepy and 
fall asleep together in a corner, sometimes we 
are very hungry, sometimes we are a little fright- 
éned, but what is oftenest hard upon us is the 
cold. You remember, Charley?” 

‘‘T remember,” said the boy, pressing her to 
him twice or thrice, ‘‘that, I snuggled under a 
little shawl, and it was warm there.” 

‘¢ Sometimes it rains, and we crecp under a 
boat or the like of that; sometimes it’s dark, 
and we gét among the gaslights, sitting watching 
the people as they go along the streets. At last, 
up comes father and takes ushome. And home 
seems such a shelter after out of doors! And 
father pulls my shoes off, and dries my feet at 
the fire, and has me to sit by him while he smokes 
his pipe long after you are abed, and I notice 
that father’s is a large hand but never a heavy 
one when it touches me, and that father’s is a 
yough voice but never an angry one when it 
speaks to me. So, I grow up, and little by little 
father trusts me, and makes me his companion, 
and, let him be put out as he may, never once 
strikes me.”’ 

The listening boy gave a grunt here, as much 
as to say ‘* But he strikes me though!” 

‘‘Those are some of the pictures of what is 
past, Charley.” 

‘Cut away again,” said the boy, ‘‘and give 
us a fortune-telling one; a future one.” 

‘*Well! There am I, continuing with father 
and holding to father, because father loves me 
and I love father. I can’t so much as read a 
book, because, if I had learned, father would 
have thought I was deserting him, and I should 
have lost my influence. I have not the influ- 
énce I want to have; I can not stop some dread- 
ful things I try to stop, but I go on in the hope 
and trust that the time willcome. Inthe mean 
while I know that I am in some things a stay to 
father, and that if I was not faithful to him he 
would—in revenge-like, or in disappointment, or 
both—go wild and bad.” 

‘¢Give us a touch of the fortune-telling pic- 
tures about me.” 

‘‘T was passing on to them, Charley,” said the 
girl, who had not changed her attitude since she 
began, and who now mournfully shook her head ; 
“the others were all leading up. ‘There are 
you” 

‘“¢Where am I, Liz?” 

‘¢ Still in the hollow down by the flare.” 

‘‘There seems to be the dence-and-all in the 
hollow down by the flare,” said the boy, glan- 
cing from her eyes to the brazier, which had a 
grisly skeleton look on its long thin legs. 

‘‘'There are you, Charley, working your way, 
in secret from father, at the school; and you get 
prizes; and you go on better and better; and 
you come to be a—what was it you called it 
when you told me about that?” 

“Wa, ha! Fortune-telling not know the 
name!” cried the boy, seeming to be rather re- 
lieved by this default on the part of the hollow 
down by the flare. ‘*‘ Pupil-teacher.” 

“You come to he a pupil-teacher, and you 
still go on better and better, and you rise to bea 
master full of learning and respect. But the 
secret has come to father’s knowledge long be- 


made a new and good beginning. 


“OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


fore, and it has divided you from father, and — 
from me.” . i 


“No it hasn’t!” 


‘Yes it has, Charley. Isee, as plain as plain: 
can be, that your way is not ours, and that even 
if father could be got to forgive your taking it 
(which he never could be), that way of yours 
would be darkened by our way. But I see too, 


Charley—” | 
‘<Still as plain as plain can be, Liz?” asked 


the boy, playfully. 


“Ah! Still. Thatit is a great work to have 
cut you away from father’s life, and to have 
So there am 
I, Charley, left alone with father, keeping him 
as straight as I can, watching for more influence 
than I have, and hoping that through some for- 
tunate. chance, or when he is ill, or when—I 
don’t know what—I may turn him to wish to do 
better things.” 

‘You said you couldn’t read a book, Lizzie. 

Your library of books is the hollow down by the 
are, I think.” 
‘‘T should be very glad to be able to read real 
books. I feel my want of learning very much, 
Charley. But I should feel it much more, if I 
didn’t know it to be a tie between me and fa- 
ther.—Hark! Father’s tread!” 

It being now past midnight, the bird of prey 
went straight to roost. At mid-day following 
he reappeared at the Six Jolly Fellowship-Por- 
ters, in the character, not new to him, of a wit- 
ness before a Coroner’s Jury. 

Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, besides sustaining 
the character of one of the witnesses, doubled 
the part with that of the eminent solicitor who 
watched the proceedings on behalf of the repre- 


sentatives of the deceased, as was duly recorded . 


in the-newspapers. Mr. Inspector watched the 
proceedings too, and kept his watching closely 
to himself. Mr. Julius Handford having given 
his right address, and being reported in solvent 
cireumstances as to his bill, though nothing more 
was known of him at his hotel except that his 
way of life was very retired, had no summons 
to appear, and was merely present in the shades 
of Mr. Inspector’s mind. 

The case was made interesting to the public 
by Mr. Mortimer Lightwood_ giving evidence 
touching the circumstances under which the de- 
ceased, Mr. John Harmon, had returned to En. 
gland; exclusive private proprietorship in which 
circumstances was set up at dinner-tables for 
several days, by Veneering, ‘'wemlow, Podsnap, 
and all the Buffers: who all related them ir- 
reconcilably with one another, and contradicted 
themselves. 
testimony of Job Potterson, the ship’s steward, 
and one Mr. Jacob Kibble, a fellow-passenger, 
that the deceased Mr. John Harmon did bring 
over, in a hand-valise with which he did disem- 
bark, the sum he had realized by the forced sale 
of his little landed property, and that the sum ex- 
ceeded, in ready money, seven hundred pounds. 
It was farther made interesting by the remark- 
able experiences of Jesse Hexam in having res- 
cued from the Thames so many dead bodies, 
and for whose behoof a rapturous admirer, sub- 


scribing himself ‘‘.A friend to Burial” (perhaps ° 
an undertaker), sent eighteen postage-stamps, _ 


and five ‘‘ Now Sir’’s to the editor of the Times. 
Upon the evidence adduced before them the 


ae ee ee ee ee 


It was also made interesting by the 


Ee 


eS ee te 


a a oe es 


SS ee eS ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Jury found, That the body of Mr. John Harmon 
had been discovered floating in the. Thames, in 
an advanced state of decay, and much injured, 
and that the said Mr. John Harmon had come 


by his death under. highly suspicions circum-. 


stances, though by whose act or in what precise 
manner there was no evidence before this Jury 
to show. And they appended to their verdict a 
recommendation to the Home Office (which Mr. 
_ Inspector appeared to think highly sensible), to 
otfer a reward for the solution of the mystery. 
Within eight-and-forty hours a reward of One 


Hundred Pounds was proclaimed, together with’ 


a free pardon to any person or persons not the 
actual perpetrator or perpetrators, and so forth 
in due form. x 

This Proclamation rendered Mr. Inspector 
additionally studious, and caused him to stand 
meditating on river-stairs and causeways, and to 
go lurking about in boats, putting this and that 
together. But, according to the success with 
which you put this and that together, you get a 
woman and a fish apart, or a Mermaid in com- 
bination. And Mr. Inspector could turn out 
nothing better than a Mermaid, which no Judge 
and Jury would believe in. 

Thus, like the tides on which it had been borne 
to the knowledge of men, the Harmon Murder 
-—as it came to be popularly called—went up and 
down, and ebbed and flowed, now in the town, 
now in the country, now among palaces, now 
among hovels, now among lords and ladies and 
gentletolks, now among laborers and hammerers 

‘and ballast-heavers, until at last, after a long 
‘Iterval of slack-water, it got out to sea and drift- 
‘ved away. 

: ——.-—__—__ 


CHAPTER IV.: 


THE R. WILFER FAMILY. 


\ReeryaLp WILFER is a name with rather a 
grand sound, suggesting on first acquaintance 
brasses in country churches, scrolls in stained- 
glass windows, and generally the De Wilfers who 
‘came over with the Conqueror: For, it is a re- 
markable-fact in genealogy that no De Any ones 
ever came over with Any body else. 

But, the Reginald Wilfer family were of such 
commonplace extraction and pursuits that their 
forefathers had for generations modestly snb- 
sisted on the Docks, the Excise-Office, and the 

»Custom-House, and the existing R. Wilfer was 
a poor clerk.. So poor a clerk, though having a 
limited salary and an unlimited family, that he 
had never yet attained the modest object of his 
ambition: which was, to wear a complete new 
suit of clothes, hat and boots included, at one 
~'time. His black hat was brown before he coutd 
afford a coat, his pantaloons were white at the 


seams and knees before he could buy a pair of 


boots, his boots had worn out before he could 
treat himself to new pantaloons, and, by the time 
he workéd round to the hat again, that shining 
modern article roofed-in an ancient ruin of va- 
rious periods, 

If the conventional Cherub could ever grow 


up and clothed, he might be photographed as a | 


view of Wilfer. His chubby, smooth, innocent 
appearance was a reason for his being always 
treated with condescension when he was not put 
down. A stranger entering his own poor house 


“29 
|at about ten o’clock p.m. might have been sur- 
| prised to find him sitting up to supper. So boy- 
ish was he in his curves and proportions, that 
his old schoolmaster meeting him in Cheapside, 
might have been unable to withstand the tempt- 
ation of caning him on the spot. In short, ‘he 
was the conventional cherub, after the supposi+ 
titious shoot just mentioned, rather gray, with 
signs of care on his expression, and in decidedly 
insolvent circumstances. 

He was shy, and unwilling to.own to the name 
of Reginald, as being too aspiring and self-assert- 
ive a name. In his signature he used only the 
initial R., and imparted what it really stood for 
|to none but chosen friends, under the seal of con- 
| fidence. Qut of this, the facetious habit had 
arisen in the neighborhood surrounding Mincing 
Lane of making Christian names for him of ad- 
jectives and participles beginning with R. Some 
of these were more or less appropriate: as Rusty, 
Retiring, Ruddy, Round, Ripe, Ridiculous, Ru- 
minative ; others derived their point from. their 
want of application—as Raging, Rattling, Roar- 
ing, Raffish. But his popular name was Rum- 
ty, which in a moment of inspiration had been 
bestowed upon him by a gentleman of convivial 
habits connected with the drug-market, as the 
bevinning of a social chorus, his leading part in 
the execution of which had Jed this gentleman 
to the Temple of Fame, and of which the whole 
expressive burden ran: F 


*“RNumty iddity, row dow dow, 
Sing toodlely, teedlely, bow wow wow.” 


Thus he was constantly addressed, even in minor 
notes on business, as ‘*‘ Dear Rumpty;” in answer 
to which, he sedately signed himself, ‘‘ Yours 
truly, R. Wilfer.” 

He was clerk in the. drug-house of Chicksey, 
Veneering, and Stobbles. Chicksey and Stob- 
bles, his former masters, had both become ab- 
sorbed in Veneering, once their traveler or com- 
mission agent: who had signalized his accession 
to supreme power by bringing into the business 
a quantity of plate-glass window and French- 
polished mahogany partition, and a gleaming 
and enormous door-plate. 

R. Wilfer locked up his desk one evening, 

and, putting his bunch of keys in his pocket 
much as if it were his peg-top, made for home. 
His house was in the Holloway region north of | 
London, and then divided from it by fields and 
trees. Between Battle Bridge and that part of 
the Holloway district in which he dwelt, was a 
itract of suburban Sahara, where tiles and bricks 
I ere burnt, bones were boiled, carpets were beat, 
rubbish was shot, dogs were fought, and dust: 
‘was heaped by contractors. Skirting the border 
‘of this desert, by the way he took, when the light . 
lof its kiln-fires made lurid smears on the fog, R. 
| Wilfer sighed and shook his head. 
| **Ah me!” said he, ‘what might have been 
‘is not what is!” 
‘With which commentary on human life, indi- 
eating an experience of it not exclusively his | 
own, he made the best of his way to the end of 
his journey. ae 

Mrs. Wilfer was, of course, a tall woman and 
an angular. Her lord being cherubic, she was 
“necessarily majestic, according to the principle 
which matrimonially unites contrasts. She was 
much given,to tying up her head in a pocket- 


oy, 
handkerchief, knotted under the chin. This 
head-gear, in conjunction witha pair of gloves 
worn within doors, she seemed to consider as at 
once a kind of armor against misfortune (invari- 
ably assuming it when in low spirits or difficul- 
ties), and as a species of full dress. It was there- 
fore with some sinking of the spirit that her hus- 
band beheld her thus “heroically attired, putting 
down her candle in the little hall; and coming 
down the door-steps through the little fr ‘ont court 
to open the gate for him. 

Something had gone wrong with the house- 
door, for R. Wilfer stopped on the steps, staring 
at it, and cried: ‘‘ Halloa?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wilfer, ‘‘the man came 
himself with a pair of pincers, and took it off, 
and took it away. He said that as he had no 
expectation of ever being paid for it, and as he 
had an order for another Lapis’ Scuoou door- 
plate, it was better (burnished up) for the inter- 
ests of all parties.” 

‘‘Perhaps it was, my dear; what do you 

think ?” 

‘¢You are master here, R. W.,” returned his 
wife. ‘It is as you think; not asI do. Per- 
haps it might have been better if the man had 
taken the door too ?” 

mt My dear, we couldn’t have done without the 
door.” 

+ Couldn’t we ?” 

‘*Why, my dear! Could we?” 

‘‘It is as you think, R. W.; not as I do.” 
With those submissive words, the dutiful wife 
preceded him down a few stairs to a little base- 
ment front-room, half kitchen, half parlor, where 
a girl of about nineteen, with an exceedingly 
pretty figure and face, but with an impaticnt 
and petulant expression both in her face and in 
her shoulders (which in her sex and at her age 
are very expressive of discontent), sat playing 
draughts with a younger girl, who was the-youn- 
gest_of the House of Wilfer. Not to encumber 
this page by telling off the Wilfers in detail and 
casting them up in the gross, it is enough for 
the present that the rest were what is called 
“out in the world,” in various ways, and that 
they were Many. So many, that when one of 
his dutiful children called in to see him, R. Wil- 
fer generally seemed to say to himself, after a 
little mental arithmetic, *‘Oh! here’s another 
of ’em!” before adding aloud, ‘‘ How de do, 
John,” or Susan, as the case might be. 

‘Well, Pigeywiggies,” said R. W., ‘‘ how de 
do to-night? What I was thinking of, my dear,” 
to Mrs. Wilfer already seated in a corner with 
folded gloves, ‘‘ was, that as we have let our first 
floor so well, and as we have now no place in 
which you could teach pupils, even if pupils—” 

‘“The milkman said he knew of two young 
ladies of the highest respectability who.were in 

search of a suitable establishment, and he took 
a card,” interposed Mrs. Wilfer, with severe mo- 
notony, as if she were reading an Act of Parlia- 
ment aloud. ‘* Tell your father whether it was 
last Monday, Bella.”’ 

‘¢But we never heard any more of it, ma,” 
said Bella, the elder girl. 

‘In addition to which, my dear,” her hus- 
band urged, ‘‘if you have no place to put two 
young persons into—” 

‘¢Pardon me,” Mrs. Wilfer again interposed ; 
“they were not young persons. Two young 


‘where 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ladies of the highest respectability. Tell your 
fathers Bella, whether the milkman said so.” 

nf My dear, it is the same thing.” 

‘No it is not,” said Mrs. Wilfer, with the 
same impressive monotony. + Pay don me!” 

‘¢T mean, my dear, it is the same thing as to 
space. As to space, If you have no space in 
which to put twe youthful fellow-creatures, how- 
ever eminently respectable, which I do not doubt, 
are those youthfal fellow-creatures to be 
accommodated? I carry it no further than that, 
And solely looking at it,” said her husband, 
making the stipulation at once in a conciliatory, 
complimentary, and ‘fas I 
am sure you will agree, my love—from a fellow- 
creature point of view, my dear.” 

‘¢T have nothing more to say,” returned Mrs, 
Wilfer, with a meek renunciatory action of her 
gloves. ‘‘Itis.as you think, R. W.; not asI do.” 

Here, the huffing of Miss Bella and the loss 
of three of her men at a swoop, ag faa ated by 
the coronation of an opponent, led to that young 
lady’s jerking the draught-board and pieces oft 
the table: which her. sister went down on her 
knees to pick up. 

** Poor Bella!” said Mrs. Wilfer. 

‘* And poor Lavinia, perhaps, my dear? ?” sug- 
gested R. W. 

‘‘ Pardon me,” said Mrs. Wilfer, ‘‘no!” 

It was one of the worthy woman's specialties 
that she had an amazing power of gratifying 
her splenetic or worldly-minded humors by ex- 
tolling her own family : which she thus proceed- 
ed, in the present case, to do. 

‘No, R. W. Lavinia has not known the 
trial that Bella has known. | The trial that your 
daughter Bella has undergone, is, perhaps, with-- 
out a parallel, and has been borne, I will say, 
Nobly. When you_see your daughter Bella in 
her black dress, which she alone of all the family 
wears, and w hen you remember the circum- - 
stances which have led to her wearing it, and 
when you know how those circumstances have 
been sustained, then, R. W., lay your head upon 
your pillow and say, ‘ Poor Lavinia!’ ” 

Here, Miss Lavinia, from her kneeling situa- 
tion under the table, put in that she didn’t want 
to be ‘‘ poored by pa,” or any body else. 

‘‘T am sure you do not, my dear,” returned 
her mother, ‘‘for you have a fine brave spirit. 
And your sister Cecilia has a fine brave spirit - 
of another kind, a spirit of pure devotion, a 
beau-ti-ful spirit! The self-sacrifice of Cecilia 
reveals a pure and womanly character, very 
seldom equaled—never surpassed. I have now 
in my pocket a letter from your sister Cecilia, 
received this morning—received three months 
after her marriage, poor child’! in which she 
tells me that her husband must unexpectedly 
shelter under their roof his reduced aunt. ‘ But 
I will be true to him, mamma,’ she touchingly 
writes, ‘I will not leave him, I must not forget 
that he is my husband. Let his aunt come!’ 
If this-is not pathetic, if this is not woman’s de- 
votion—!” 'The good lady waved her gloves in 
a sense of the impossibility of saying more, and 
tied the pocket-handkerchief over her head in a 
tighter knot under her chin. 

Bella, who was now seated on the rug to warm 
herself, with her brown eyes on the fire and a 
handful of her brown curls in her mouth, laughed 
at this, and then.pouted.and half cried. 


os 


‘‘T am sure,” said she, “though you have no 
feeling fur me, pa, Iam one of the most unfor- 
tunate girls that ever lived. You know how 
poor we are” (it is probable he did, having some 
reason to know it!), ‘‘and what a glimpse of 
wealth I had, and how it melted away, and how 
I am here in this ridiculous mourning—which I 
hate !—a kind of a widow who never was mar- 
ried. And yet you don’t feel for me.—Yes you 
‘do, yes you do.” . 

This abrupt change was occasioned by her fa- 

- ther’s faces She stopped to pull him down from 
his. chair in an attitude highly favorable to stran- 
gulation, and to give him. a kiss and a pat or 

two on the cheek. ‘ 

‘‘ But you ought to feel for me, you’know, pa.” 

‘¢ My dear, I do.” ; 

“Yes, and I say you ought to. If they had 
‘only left me alone and told me nothing about 
it, it would have mattered much less. But that 
nasty Mr. Lightwood feels it his duty, as he 


‘says, to write and tell me what is in reserve for 


‘me, and then I am obliged to get rid of George 
| Sampson.” . 

Here, Lavinia, rising to the surface with the 
last draughtman rescued, interposed, ‘‘ You never 
cared for George Sampson, Bella.” 

“And did I say I did, miss?” Then, pout- 
ing again, with the curls in her mouth; ‘‘ George 


Sampson was very fond of me, and admired me 


very much, and put up with every thing I did to 
him.” : 

“You were rude enough to him,” Lavinia 
again interposed. 

‘* And did I say I wasn’t, miss? I am not 
setting up to be sentimental about George Samp- 
son. I only say George Sampson was better 
than nothing.” 

“You didn’t show him that you thought even 
that,’’ Lavinia again interposed. 

“Vou are a chit and a little idiot,” returned 
Bella, ‘‘or you wouldn’t make such a dolly 
speech. What did you expect me to do? Wait 
till you are a woman, and don’t talk about what 
you don’t understand. You only show your ig- 
norance!” Then, whimpering again, and at in- 
tervals biting the curls, and stopping to look how 
much was bitten off, ‘‘It's a shame! There 
never was such a hard case! I shouldn’t care 
so much if it wasn’t so ridiculous. It was ridic- 
ulons enough to have a stranger coming over to 
marry me, whether he liked it or not. “It was 
ridiculous enough to know what an embarrass- 
ing meeting it would be, and how we never could 
pretend to have an inclination of our own, either 
of us. It was ridiculous enough to know~I 
shouldn’t like him—how could I like him, left to 
him in a will like a dozen of spoons, with every 
‘thing cut and dried beforehand, like orange 
chips. Talk of orange flowers indeed! I de- 
clare again it’s a shame! ‘Those ridiculous 
points would have been smoothed away by the 
money, for I love money, and want money 
want it dreadfully. I hate te be poor, and we 
are degradingly poor, offensively poor, misera- 
bly poor, beastly poor. But here I am, left with 
all the ridiculous parts of the situation remain-+ 


ing, and, added to them all, this ridiculous | 


dress! And if the truth was known, when the 
Harmon murder was all over the town, and peo- 
ple were speculating on its being suicide, I dare 
say those impudent wretches at the clubs and 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


31 


places made jokes about the miserable creature’s> 
having preferred a watery grave to mez It’s 
likely enough they took such liberties; J 
shouldn’t wonder! I declare it’s a very hard 
case indeed, and I am a most unfortunate girl, 
The idea of being a kind of a widow, and never 
having been married! And the idea of being as 
poor as ever after all, and going into black, be- 
sides, for a man I never saw, and should have 
hated—as far as he was concerned—if I had 
seen !” 

The young lady’s lamentations were checked 
at this point by a knuckle, knocking at the half- 
open door of the room. ‘The knuckle had knock- 
ed two or three times already, but had not been 
heard. 

‘“Who is it?” said Mrs. Wilfer, in her Act- 
of-Parliament manner. ‘*‘ Enter!” 

A gentleman coming in, Miss Bella, with a 
short and sharp exclamation, scrambled off the 
hearth-rug and massed the bitten curls together 
in their right place on her neck. 

‘<The servant-girl had her key in the door as 
I came up, and directed me to this room, telling 
me I was expected. JI am afraid I should have 
asked her to announce me.” 

‘¢Pardon me,” returned Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘ Not 
at all. Two of my daughters. R. W., this is 
the gentleman who has taken our first-floor. 
He was so good as to make an appointment for 
to-night, when you would be at home.” 


A dark gentleman. Thirty at the most. An 
expressive, one might say handsome, face. A 


very bad manner. Inthe last degree constrain- 
ed, reserved, diffident, troubled. His eyes were 
on Miss Bella for an instant, and then looked at 
the ground as he addressed the master of the 
house. . 

‘«Seeing that I am quite satisfied, Mr. Wil- 
fer, with the rooms, and with their situation, and 
with their price, I suppose a memorandum be- 
tween us of two or three lines, and a payment 
down, will bind the bargain? I wish to send in 
furniture without delay.” . 

Two or three times during this short address, 
the cherub addressed had made chubby motions 
towards a chair. The gentleman now took it, 
laying a hesitating hand on a corner of the ta- 
ble, and with another hesitating hand lifting the 
crown of his hat to his lips, and drawing it be- 
fore his mouth. 

“The gentleman, R. W.,” said Mrs. Wilfer, 
‘“proposes to take our apartments by the quar- 
ter. A quarter’s notice on either side.” 

‘‘Shall I mention, Sir,” insinuated the land- 
lord, expecting it to be received as a matter of 
course, ‘‘the form of a reference ?” 

‘‘T think,” returned the gentleman, after a 
pause, ‘‘that a reference is not necessary; nei- 
ther, to say the truth, is it convenient, for I am 
a stranger in London. I require no reference 
from you, and perhaps, therefore, you will re- 
quire none from me. That will be fair on both 
sides. Indeed, I show the greater confidence 
of the two, for I will pay in advance whatever 
you please, and I am going to trust my furni- 
ture here. Whereas, if you were in embarrassed 
circumstances—this is merely supposititious—” 

Conscience causing R. Wilfer to color, Mrs. 
Wilfer, from a corner (she always got into state- 
ly corners) came to the rescue with a deep-toned 
‘¢ Per-fectly.”’ 


32 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — 


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paper and saying, ‘Where am I to go, pa? 
Here, in this corner?” He looked at the beau- 
tiful brown hair, shading the coquettish face; 
he looked at the free dash of the signature, 
which was a bold one for a woman’s; and then 
¢ they looked at one another. 

“Much obliged to you, Miss Wilfer.” 

“¢Obliged ?” : 

‘<T have given you so much trouble.” 

“‘Sioning my name?) Yes, certainly. 
am your landlord’s daughter, Sir.” 

As there was nothing more to do but pay 
eight sovereigns in earnest of the bargain, pock- 
et the agreement, appoint.a time for the arrival 
of his furniture and himself, and go, Mr. Roke- 
smith did that as awkwardly as it might be done, 
and was escorted by his landlord to the outer 
air. When R,. Wilfer returned, candlestick in 
hand, to the bosom of his family, he found the 
bosom agitated. 

‘“‘Pa,” said Bella, ‘‘we have got a Murderer 
for a tenant.” 

Pa,” said Lavinia, ‘‘we have got a Robber.” 

“To see him unable for his life to look any 
body in the face!” said Bella. “There never 
was such an exhibition.” 

‘‘ My dears,” said their father, “he is a diffi- 
dent gentleman, and I should say particularly 
so in the society of girls of your age.” 

‘¢ Nonsense, our age!” cried Bella, impatient- 
‘¢What’s that got to do with him ?” 
‘¢ Besides, we are not of the same age :— 
which age?” demanded Lavinia. 

“Never you mind, Lavvy,” retorted Bella; 
“vou wait til you are of-an age to ask such 
questions. Pa, mark my words! Between Mr. 
Rokesmfith and me there is a natural antipathy 
and a deep distrust; and something will come 
of it!” 

‘My dear, and girls,” said the cherub-patri- 
arch, “between Mr. Rokesmith and me there is 
a matter of eight sovereigns, and something for 
supper shall come of it, if you'll agree upon the 
article.” . 

This was a neat and happy turn to give the 
subject, treats being rare in the Wilfer house- 

hold, where a monotonous appearance of Dutch- 
cheese at ten o’clock in the evening had been 
rather frequently commented on by the dimpled 
shoulders of Miss Bella. Indeed, the modest 
Dutchman himself seemed conscious of his want 
of variety, and generally came before the family 
in a state of apologetic perspiration. After some 
discussion on the relative merits of veal-cutlet, 
sweet-bread, and lobster, a decision was pro- 
nounced in favor of veal-cutlet. Mrs. Wilfer 
then solemnly divested herself of her handker- 
chief and gloves, as a preliminary sacrifice to 
epreparing the frying-pan, and R. W. himself 
went out to purchase the viand. He soon re- 
turned, bearing the same in a fresh cabbage- 
leaf, where it coyly embraced a rasher of ham. 
Melodious sounds were not long in rising from 
the frying-pan on the fire, or in seeming, as the 
fire-light danced in the mellow halls of a couple 
of full bottles on the table, to play appropriate 
dance-music, 

The cloth was laid by Lavvy. Bella, as the 
acknowledged ornament of the family, employed 
both her hands in giving her hair an additional 
wave while sitting in the easiest chair, and oc- 

- casionally threw in a direction touching the sup- 


But I 


ly. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


33 


per: as, ‘‘ Very brown, ma;” or, to her sister, 
‘¢Put the salt-cellar straight, miss, and don’t be 
a dowdy little puss.” i 

Meantime her father, chinking Mr. Roke- 
smith’s gold as he sat expectant between his 
knife and fork, remarked that six of those soy- 
ereigns came just in time for their landlord, and 
stood them in a little pile on the white table- 
cloth to look at. 

‘¢T hate our landlord!” said Bella. 

But, observing a fall in her father’s face, she 
went and sat down by him at the table, and be- 
gan touching up his hair with the handle of a 
fork. It was one of the gitl’s spoiled ways to be 
always arranging the family’s hair—perhaps he- 
cause her own was so pretty, and occupied so 
much of her attention. 

‘¢You deserve to have a house of your own; 
don’t you, poor pa?” 

‘¢T don’t deserve it better than another, my 
dear.” 

‘At any rate I, for one, want it more than 
another,” said Bella, holding him by the chin, 
as she stuck his flaxen hair on end, ‘‘and I 
grudge this money going to the Monster that 
swallows up so much, when we all want—every 
thing. And if you say (as you want to say; I 
know you want to say so, pa) ‘that’s neither 
reasonable nor honest, Bella,’ then I answer, 
‘May be not, pa—very likely—but it’s one of 
the consequences of being poor, and of thorough- 
ly hating and detesting to be poor, and that’s my 
case.’ Now, you look lovely, pa; why don’t 
you always wear your hair like that? And here’s 
the cutlet! If it isn’t very brown, ma, I can’t 
eat it, and must have a bit put back to be done 
expressly.” 

However, as it was brown, even to Bella’s 
taste, the young lady graciously partook of it 
without reconsignment to the frying-pan, and 
also, in due coutse, of the contents of the two 
bottles: whereof one held Scotch ale and the 
other rum. . The latter perfume, with the fos- 
tering aid of boiling water and lemon-peel, dif- 
fused itself throughout the room, and became so 
highly concentrated around the warm fireside, 
that the wind passing over the house roof must 
have rushed off charged with a delicious whiff, 
of it, after buzzing like a great bee at that par- 
ticular chimney-pot. 

“Pa,” said Bella, sipping the fragrant mixt- 
ure and warming her favorite ankle; ‘‘ when 
old Mr. Harmon made such a fool of me (not to 
mention himself, as he is. dead), what do you 
suppose he did it for?” 

‘‘Impossible to say, my dear. As I have told 
-ou times out of number since his will was 
brought to light, I doubt if I ever exchanged a 
hundred words with the old gentleman. If it 
was his whim to surprise us, his whim succeed- 
ed. For he certainly did it.” 

‘And I was stamping my foot and screaming, 
when he first took notice of me; was 1?” said 
Bella. contemplating the ankle before mentioned. 

‘¢ You were stamping your little foot, my dear, 
and screaming with your little voice, and laying 
into me with your little bonnet, which you had 
snatched off for the purpose,” returned her fa- 
ther, as if the remembrance gave a relish to the 
rum; ‘you were doing this one Sunday morn- 
ing when I took you out, because I didn’t go 
the exact way you wanted, when the old gentle- 


34 


man, sitting on a seat near, said, ‘That’s a nice 
girl; that’s a very nice girl; a promising girl!’ 
And so you were, my dear.” 

‘‘And then he asked my name, did he, pa?” 


“Then he asked your name, my dear, and | 


mine; and on other Sunday mornings, when we 
walked his way, we saw him again, and—and 
really that’s all.” 

‘As that was all the rum and water too, or, in 
other words, as R. W. delicately signified that 


his glass was empty, by throwing back his head | 


and standing the glass upside down on his nose 


and upper lip, it might have been charitable in | 


Mrs. Wilfer to suggest replenishment. But that 
heroine briefly suggesting ‘‘ Bedtime” instead, 
the bottles were put away, and the family re- 
tired ; she cherubically escorted, like some se- 
vere saint in a painting, or merely human mat- 
ron allegorically treated. 

*¢ And by this time to-morrow,” said Lavinia, 


when the two girls were alone in their room, | 
“we shall have Mr. Rokesmith here, and shall , 


be expecting to have our throats cut.” 

“*You needn’t stand between me and the can- 
dle for all that,” retorted Bella. “This is an- 
other of the consequences of being poor! The 


idea of a girl with a really fine head of hair; 


having to do it by one flat candle and a few. 


19? 


inches of looking-glass! 

**You caught George Sampson with it, Bella, 
bad as your means of dressing it are.” 

** You low little thing. Caught George Samp- 
son with it! Don’t talk about catching people, 
miss, till your own time for catching—as you 
call it—comes.” 

‘* Perhaps it has come,” muttered Lavvy, with 
a toss of her head. 

‘What did you say ?” asked Bella, very sharp- 

‘What did you say, miss ?” 

Lavvy declining equally to repeat or to ex- 


ly. 


plain, Bella gradually lapsed over her hair-dress- | 


ing into a soliloquy on the miseries of being 
poor, as exemplified in having nothing to put 
on, nothing to go out in, nothing to dress by, 


only a nasty box to dress at instead of a com-_| 


modious dressing-table, and being obliged to take 
in suspicious lodgers. On the last grievance as 


| 
| 


her climax she laid great stress—and might | 


have laid greater, had she known that if Mr. 
Julius Handford had a twin brother.upon. earth 
Mr. John Rokesmith was the man. 


eS 


CHAPTER V. 
BOFFIN’S BOWER. 


OvER against a London house, a corner 


house not far from Cavendish Square, a man! 
with a wooden leg had sat for some years, with | 


his remaining foot in a basket in cold weather, 


picking up a living on this wise:—Every morn- | 
ing at eight o’clock he stumped to the corner, | 


carrying a chair, a clothes-horse, a pair of tres- 
tles, a board, a basket, and an umbrella, all 
strapped together. Separating these, the board 
and trestles became a counter, the basket sup- 
plied the few small lots of fruit and sweets that 
he offered for sale upon it and became a foot- 
warmer, the unfolded clothes-horse displayed a 
choice collection of half-penny ballads and be- 
came a screen, and the stool planted within it 


> 


ay 


UUR MUTUAL FRIEND. iis 


became his post for the rest of the day. All 
weathers saw the man at the post. This is to. 
be accepted in a double sense, for he contrived . 


a back to his wooden stool by placing it against * 
When the weather was wet, he 


the lamp-post. 
put up his umbrella over his stock in trade, not- 
over himself; when the weather was dry, he 
furled that faded article, tied it round with a 
piece of varn, and laid it cross-wise under the 
trestles; where it looked like an unwholesomely- 


forced lettuce that had lost in color and crisp- 


ness what it had gained in size. 

He had established his right to the corner, by 
imperceptible prescription. He had neyer va-. 
ried his ground an inch, but had in the begin- 
ning diffidently taken the corner upon which the 
side. of the house gave. A howling corner in 
the winter-time, a dusty corner in the summer- 
time, an undesirable corner at the best of times. 


Shelterless fragments of straw and paper got up 


revolving storms there, when the main street 
was at peace; and the water-cart, as if it were 
drunk or short-sighted, came blundering artd 
jolting round it, making it muddy when all elsé 
was clean. 

On the front of his sale-board hung a little 
placard, like a kettle-holder, bearing the inscrips 
tion in his own‘small text: ‘ 


Errands gone 

On with ji 

Delity By 

Ladies and Gentlemen - 
Tvemain 

Your humble Serv: 
Silas Wegg. 


He had not only settled it with himself in course 
of time, that he was errand-goer by appointment 
to the house at the corner (though he received 
such commissions not half a dozen times in a 
year, and then only as some servant’s deputy), 
but also that he was one of the house’s retainers 
and owed vassalage to it and was bound to leal 
and loyal interest in it. For this reason, he al- 
ways spoke of it as ‘‘Our House,” and, though 
his knowledge of its affairs was mostly specula- 
tive and all wrong, claimed to be in its confi- 
dence. On similar grounds he never beheld an 
inmate at any one of its windows but he touched 
his hat. Yet, he knew so little about the in- 
mates that he gave them names of his own in- 
vention; as ‘* Miss Elizabeth,” ‘* Master George,” 
‘* Aunt Jane,” “ Uncle Parker’—having no au- 
thority whatever for any such designations, but 
particularly the last—to which, as a natural con- 
sequence, he stuck with great obstinacy, 

Over the house itself he exercised the same 
imaginary power as over its inhabitants and their 
affairs. He had never been in it, the length of 
a piece of fat black water-pipe which trailed it- 
self over the area-door into a damp stone pas- 


sage, and had rather the air of a leech on the — 


house that had “taken” wonderfully ; but this 
was no impediment to his arranging it accord- 
ing to a plan of his own. It was a great dingy 
house with a quantity of dim side window and 
blank back premises, and -it cost his mind a 
world of trouble so to lay it out as to account 


for every thing in its external appearance. But, - 


this once done, was quite satisfactory, and le 
rested persuaded that he knew his way about 


— 


—_— ee ee ee 


ie Ye ear Wer i 7 


Cae mee OP's pet 


\ Fie * 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘the house blindfold: from the barred garrets in 
the high roof, to the two iron extinguishers be- 
fore the main door—which seemed to request all 


lively visitors to have the kindness to put them- 


selves out, before entering. 

Assuredly, this stall of Silas Wege’s was the 
hardest little stall of all the sterile little stalls in 
. London. It gave you the face-ache to look at 
his apples, the stomach-ache to look at his or- 
anges, the tooth-ache to look at his nuts. Of 
the latter commodity he had always a grim lit- 
tle heap, on which lay a little wooden measure 
which had no discernible inside, and was con- 
sidered to represent the penn’orth appointed by 
Magna Charta.’ Whether from too much east 
wind or no-—it was an easterly cornerthe stall, 
fhe stock, and the keeper, were all as dry as the 
Desert. _Wegg was a knotty man, and a close- 
grained, with a face carved out of very hard ma- 
terial, that had just as much play of expression 
as a watchman’s rattle. -When he laughed, cer- 
tain jerks occurred in it, and the rattle sprung. 
Soot to say, he was so wooden a man that he 
secined| to have taken his wooden leg naturally, 
and rather suggested to the fanciful observer, 
that he might be expected—if his dev clopment 
received no untimely check—to be completely 
set up with a pair of wooden legs in about six 
months. 

Mr. Wegg was an observant person, or, as he 
himself said, ‘* took a powerful sight of notice.” 
He saluted all his regular passers-by every day, 
as he sat on his stool backed up by the ‘lamp- 
post; and on the adaptable character of these 
salutes he greatly plumed himself. Thus, to 
the rector, he addressed a bow, compounded of 
lay deference, and a slight touch of ihe shady 
preliminary meditation at chureh; to the doc- 
tor, a confidential bow, as to a gentleman whose 
acquaintance with his inside he begged respect- 
fully to acknowledge ; beforg the Quality he de- 
_ lighted to abase himself ; ; and for Uncle Parker, 
who was in the army (at least, so he had settled 
it), he put his open hand to the side of his hat, 
in a military manner which that angry-eyed, 
buitoned-up inflammatory-faced old gentleman 
appeared but imperfectly to appreciate. 

The only article in which Silas dealt, that was 
not hard, was gingerbread.- On a certain day, 
some wretched infant having purchased the damp 
gingerbread-horse (fearfully out of condition), 
and the adhesive bird-cage, which had been ex- 
posed for the day’s sale, he had taken a tin box 
from under his stool to produce a relay of those 
dreadful specimens, and was going to look in at 
the lid, when he said to himself, pausing: ‘‘Oh! 
_ Here you are again!” 

The words referred to a broad, round-shoul- 
dered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, coming 
comically ambling toward the corner, dressed in 
@ pea over-coat, and carrying a large stick. He 
wore thick shoes, and thick leather gaiters, and 
thick gloves like a hedger’s. Both as to his dress 
and to himself he was of an overlapping rhinoc- 
- eros build, with folds in his cheeks, and his fore- 
head, and his eyelids, and his lips, and his ears; 

but with bright, eager, childishly-inquiring, gray 
eyes, under his ragged eyebrows, and _ broad- 
_ brimmed hat. A very odd-looking old fellow 
~ altogether’ 
_ ‘*Here you are again,” 
musing. ‘‘And what are you now? 


repeated Mr. Wegg, 


Are you 


35 


in the Funns, or where are you? Have you 
lately come to settle in this neighborhood, or do 
you own to another enone ? Are youin 
independent circumstances, or is it wasting the 
motions of a bow on you? Come! ll specu- 
late!. I'll invest a bow in you!” 

Which Mr. Wegg, having replaced his tin box, 
accoflingly did, as he rose to bait his ginger- 
bread- -trap. for some other devoted infant. ‘he 

salute was acknowledged with: 

‘¢Morning, Sir! Morning! Morning! 

(** Calls me Sir!” said pe Wegg, to himself, 
‘¢ Te won't answer. A bow gone!”) 

** Morning, morning, morning!” 

‘* Appears to be rather a ’arty old cock, too,” 
said Mr. Wees, as before. ‘‘Gcod-morning to 
you, Sir.” 

‘* Do you remember me, then?” asked his new 
acquaintance, stopping in his amble, one-sided, 
before the stall, and speaking in a pouncing way, 
though with great good-humor. 

“oy have noticed you go past our house, Sir, 
several times in the course of the last week or so.” 


1? 


‘‘Qur house,” repeated the other. ‘‘ Mean- 
ing— ?” 
“Yes,” said Mr. Wegg, nodding, as the other 


pointed the clumsy forefinger of his right glove 
at the corner house. 

*““Oh! Now, what,” pursued the old fellow, 
in an inquisitive manner, carrying his knotted 
stick in his left arm as if it were a baby, ‘‘ what 
do they allow you now ?” 

‘¢Tt’s job work that I do for our house,’ ree 
turned Silas, dryly, and with reticence; ‘‘it’s 
not yet brought to an exact allowance.” 

“Oh! It’s not yet brought to an exact al- 
lowance? No! It’s not yet brought to an exact 
allowance. Oh!—Morning, morning, morning!” 

‘* Appears to be rather a cracked old cock,” 
thought Silas, qualifving his former good opin- 
ion, as the other ambled off. But, in a moment 
he was back again with the question: 

‘* How did you get your wooden leg ?” 

Mr. Wegg replied (tartly to this personal in- 
quiry), ‘‘In an accident.” 

Do you. hkevterS 

‘Well! I haven't got to keep it warm,” Mr. 
Wegg made answer, in a sort of desperation oe- 
casioned by the singularity of the question. 

‘*He hasn’t,”’ repeated the other to his knot- 
ted stick, as he gave it a hug; ‘‘he hasn’t cot— 
ha !—ha !—to keep it warm! Did you ever hear 
of the name of Boffin?” 

‘*No,” said Mr. Wegg, who was growing rest- 
ive under this examination. ‘I never did hear 
of the name of Boffin.” 

‘Do you like it ?” 

““Why, no,” retorted Mr. Wegg, again ap- 
proaching desperation ; ‘‘I can’t say I do.” 

‘‘ Why don’t you like it 2” 

“‘T don’t know why I don’t,” retorted Mr. 
Wegg, approaching frenzy, ‘‘ but I don’t at all.’ 

‘*Now, I'l tell you something that'll zis’ 
you sorry for that,” said the stranger, smiling. 
** My name's Boftin.” 

“T can’t help it!” returned Mr. We Im- 
plying in his manner the offensive addition, 
‘and if I could, I wouldn't.” 

‘‘But there’s another chance for you,” said 
Mr. Boffin, smiling still; ‘‘ Do you like the name 
of Nicodemus? Thinkitover. Nick, or Noddy.” 

‘Tt is not, Sir,” Mr. Wegg 1ejuined, as he sat 


55 


a an 


36 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


down on his stool, with an air of gentle resigna- | 


tion, combined with melancholy candor; ‘‘it is 
not a name as I could wish any one.that I had 
a respect for, to call me by; but there may be 
persons that would not view it with the same ob- 


-Jections.—I don’t know why,” Mr. Wegg added, 


anticipating another question. 

“‘ Noddy Boftin,” said that gentleman. “?Nod- 
dy. ‘That’s my name. Noddy—or Nick—Bof- 
What’s your name ?” 

“Silas Wegg.—I don’t,” said Mr. Wegg, 
Being himself to take the same precaution 
as before, ‘*I don’t know why Silas, and I don’t 
know why Wegg.” 

‘¢Now, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, hugging his 
stick closer, ‘‘T want to make a sort of offer to 
you. Do you remember when you first see me?” 

The wooden Wegg looked at him with a med- 
itative eye, and also with a softened air as de- 
serying possibility of profit. ‘Let me think. I 
ain’t quite sure, and yet I generally take a pow- 
erful sight of notice, too. Was it on a Monday 
morning, when the butcher-boy had been to our 


=? 


house for orders, and bought a ballad of me, 


which, being unacquainted with the tune, I run | 


it over to him?”, 

‘‘Right, Wegg, 
than one.” 

‘“Yes to be sure, Sir; he bought several; and 
wishing to lay out his money to-the best, he took 
my opinion to guide his choice, and we went over 
the collection together. ‘Io be sure we did. 
Here was him as it might be, and here was my- 
self as it might be, and there was you, Mr. Boffin, 
as you identically are, with vour self-same stick 
under your very same arm, and your very same 
back toward us. ‘To—be—sure!” added Mr. 
Wegg, looking a little round Mr. Boffin, to take 
him in the rear, and identify this last extraordi- 
nary coincidence, ‘‘ your wery self-same back.’ 

‘What do you think I was doing, Wegg ?” 

“T should judge, Sir, that you might be glan- 
cing your eye down the street.’ 

‘‘No, Wegg. I was a-listening, 

‘Was you, indeed?” said Mr. Wegg, dubi- 
Susiv. 

‘¢Not in a dishonorable way, Wegg, because 
you was singing to the butcher; and you wouldn’ t 
sing secrets to a butcher in the street, you know.’ 

‘“It never happened that I did so yet, to the 
best of my remembrance,” said Mr. Wegg, cau- 
tiously. ‘* But I might do it. A man can’t 
say what he might wish to do some day or an- 
other.” (This, not to release any little advant- 
age he might derive from Mr. Boffin’s avowal.) 

‘¢Well,’’ repeated Boffin, ‘‘I was a-listening 
to you and to him. And what do you—you 
haven’t got another stool, have you? I’m rath- 
er thick in my breath.” 

‘‘T haven’t got another, but. you’re welcome 
to this; said Wegg, resigning it. ‘It’s a treat 
to me to stand.”’ - 

“Lard!” exclaimed Mr. Boffin, in a tone of 
great enjoyment, as he settled himself down, 
still nursing his stick like a baby, ‘‘it’s a pleas- 
ant place, this! And then to be shut in on each 
side, with these ballads, like so many book-leaf 
blinkers!) Why, it’s delightful ?”’ 

‘¢Tf J am not mistaken, Sir,’ Mr. Wegg deli- 
cately hinted, resting a hand on his stall, and 
bending over the discursive Boffin, ‘‘ you alluded 
to some offer or another that was in your mind ?” 


right! But he bought more 


? 


‘I’m coming to it! Allright. I’m coming 
to it! I was going to say that when [I listen- 
ed that morning, I listened with hadmiration 
amounting tohaw. I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a 
man with a wooden leg—a literary mar. with—’” 

‘*N—not exactly so, Sir,” said Mr. Wegg. 

‘¢Why, you know every one of these songs by 
name and by tune, and if you want to read or 
to sing any one on ’em off straight, yon’ve only 
to whip on your spectacles and do it! ! cried Mr. 
Boftin. ‘¢I see you at it!” 

- Well, Sir,” returned Mr. Wegg, with a con- 
scious inclination of the head; ‘‘ we’ll say liter- 
ary, then.” ; 

“A literary man—with a wooden leg—and 
all Print is open to him?!’ That’ s what I thonghy 
to myself, that morning,” pursued Mr. Boffin, 
leaning forward to describe, uncramped by the 
clothes-horse, as Jarge an are as his right arm 
could make; ‘‘‘all Print is open to him!’ 


‘sis. ‘*'That ain’t no word for it. 


it is, ain’t it?” 


‘Why, truly, Sir,” Mr. Wegg admitted, with 
modesty; “I helieve you couldn’t show me the 
piece of English print that I wouldn’t be equal 
to collaring and throwing.” 

“*On the spot ?” said Mr. Boffin. 

“*On the spot.” 

‘“‘T know’d it! Then consider this. Here 
am J, a man without a wooden leg, and yet all 
print is shut to me.” 

‘‘ Indeed, Sir?” Mr. Wegg returned with in- 
creasing self-complacency. ‘‘ Education neg- 
lected ?”’ 

‘¢ Neg—lected!” repeated Boffin with empha- 
I don’t mean 
to say but what if you showed me a B, I could 


fin.” 

“¢Come, come, Sir,’ said Mr. Wegg, throwing 
in a little encouragement, ‘‘that’s something, 
too.” ‘ 

‘¢Tr’s something,” answered Mr. Boffin, ‘‘ but 
Ill take my oath it ain’t much.” 

ef Perhaps it’s not as much as could be wish-. 
ed by an inquiring mind, Sir,” Mr. Wegg ad- 
mitted. 

‘¢ Now, look here. I’m retired from business, 
Me and Mrs. Boffin—Henerictty Boffin—which 
her father’s name was Henery, and her mother’s 
name was Hetty, and so yon get it—we live on 
a compittance, under the will of a diseased gov- 
ernor.” 

‘‘Gentleman dead, Sir?” 

Man alive, don’t I tell you? 
governor ? 


A diseased 


mar-books. 
I want to take it easy. But I want some read- 
ing—some fine bold reading, some splendid book 
in a gorging Lord Mayor’s-Show of wollumes” 
(probably meaning gorgeous, but misled by as- 


| pint of view, and take time to go by you. How — 
‘can I get that reading, Wegg? By,” tapping — 
him on the breast with the head of his. thick 
| stick, ‘‘ paying a man truly qualified to do it, so 
| much an hour (say twopence) to come and do 
it.” 

‘“‘Hem! Flattered, Sir, I am sure,” said 
Wegg, beginning to regard himself in quite a 
new light. ‘‘Hem! 
i tioned, Sir?” 


Now, it’s too late for me to begin — 
shoveling and sifting at alphabeds and gram- | 
I’m getting to be a old bird, and © 


This is the offer you men- | 


And | 


so far give you change for it, as to answer Bof- -— 
o ; “vd 


” 


sociation of ideas); ‘‘as'll reach right down your i 


ew 
Yes, Do you like it?” 

‘¢T am considering of it, Mr. Boffin.” 

“‘T don’t,” said Boffin, in a free-handed man- 
ner, ‘‘ want to tie a literary man—wzth a wood- 
en leg—down too tight. A half-penny an hour 
sha’n’t part us. The hours are your own to 
choose, after you’ve done for the day with your 
house here. I[ live over Maiden Lane way—out 
Holloway direction—and you’ve only got to go 
East-and-by-North when. you’ve finished here, 
and you're there. ‘Twopence half-penny an 
hour,” said Boffin, taking a piece of chalk from 
his pocket and getting off the stool to work the 
sum on the top of it in his own way; ‘‘two 
long’uns and a short’?un—twopence half-penny ; 
two short’uns is a long’un and two long’uns is 
four long’uns—making five long’uns; six nights 
a week at five long’uns a night,” scoring them 
all down separately, ‘‘and you mount up to 
thirty long’uns. A round’un! Half a crown!” 

Pointing to this result as a large and satis- 
factory one, Mr. Boffin smeared it out with his 
moistened glove, and sat down on the remains. 

“Half a crown,” said Wegg, meditating. 
‘Yes. (It ain’t much, Sir.) Half a crown.” 

**Per week, you know.” 

“Per week. Yes.* As to the amount of 
strain upon the intellect now. Was you think- 


ing at all of poetry ?”” Mr. Wegg inquired, mus- | 


ing. 

‘* Would it come dearer ?”?) Mr. Boffin asked. 

“‘It would come dearer,” Mr. Wegg returned. 
“Vor when a person comes to grind off poetry 
night after night, it is but right he should expect 
to be paid for its weakening effect on his mind.” 

**Yo tell you the truth, Wegg,” said Boffin, 
**T wasn’t thinking of poetry, except in so fur 
as this:—If you was to happen now and then 
to feel yourself in the mind to tip me and Mrs. 
-Boffin one of your ballads, why then we should 
drop into poetry.” 

**T follow you, Sir,” said Wegg. ‘‘ But not 
being a regular musical professional, I should 
be loath to engage myself for‘that ; and there- 
fore when I dropped into poetry, I should ask 
to be considered so fur, in the light of a friend.” 
_ At this, Mr. Boffin’s eyes sparkled, and he 
shook Silas earnestly by the hand: protesting 
that it was more than he could have asked, and 
that he took it very kindly indeed. 

‘*What do you think of the terms, Wegg ?” 
Mr. Boffin then demanded, with unconcealed 
anxiety. 

Silas, who had stimulated this anxiety by his 
hard reserve of manner, and who had begun to 

understand his man very well, replied with an 
air; as if he were saying something extraordi- 
narily generous and great: 

_ ** My. Boffin, I never bargain.’’ 

**So I should have thought of you!” said Mr. 
Boffin, admiringly. 

eo ‘*No, Sir. I never did ’aggle and I never 
“will *aggle. Consequently I meet you at once, 
free and fair, with Done, for double the 
money !” 

Mr. Boffin seemed a little unprepared for this 
conclusion, but assented, with the remark, ‘‘ You 
know better what it ought to be than I do, 
’ Wegg,” and again shook hands with him upon 
lt 


“Could you begin to-night, Wegg?” he then 
demanded, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


37 


“Yes, Sir,” said Mr. Wegg, careful to leave 
all the eagerness to him. ‘‘I see no difficulty 
if you wish it. You are provided with the need- 
ful implement—a book, Sir?” 

‘Bought him at a sale,”*said Mr. Boffin. 
‘‘Eight wollumes. Red and gold. Purphk rib- 
bon in every wollume, to keep the place where 
you leave off. Do you know him?” 

“The book’s name, Sir ?” inquired Silas. 

**T thought you might have know’d him with- 
out it,” said Mr. Boffin slightly disappointed. 


i’ His name is Decline-And-Fall-Off-The-Roo- : 


shan-Empire.” (Mr. Boftin’ went over these 


stones slowly, and with much caution.) 


‘Ay indeed!” said Mr. Wegg, nodding his 
head with an air of friendly recognition. 

“You know him, Wegg ?”’ 

‘I haven’t been not to say right slap through 
him, very lately,” Mr. Wegg made answer, 
‘‘having been otherways employed, Mr. Boffin. 
But know him? Old familiar declining and 


falling off the Rooshan? Rather, Sir! Ever 
since [ was not so high as your stick. Ever 


since my eldest brother left our cottage to enlist 
into the army. On which occasion, as the bal- 
lad that was made about it describes : 
‘6 Beside that enttage door, Mr. Boffin, 
A girl was on her knees; 
She held aloft a snowy scarf, Sir, 
Which qny eldest brother noticed) fluttered in the 
breeze. 
She breathed a prayer for him, Mr. Boffin; 
A prayer he coold not hear. 
And my eldest brother lean’d upon his sword, Mr. Boffin, 
And wiped away a tear.” 


Much impressed by this family circumstance, 
and also by the friendly disposition of Mr. Wegg, 
as exemplified in his so soon dropping into po- 
etry, Mr. Boftin again shook hands with that 
ligneous sharper, and besought him to name his 
hour. Mr. Wegg named eight. 

‘¢ Where I live,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘is called 
The Bower. Boffin’s Bower is the name Mrs. 
Boffin.christened.it when we come into it as a 
property. If you should meet with any body 
that don’t know it by that name (which hardly 
any body does), when you’ve got nigh upon about 
a odd mile, or say and a quarter if you like, up 
Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, ask for Harmony 
Jail, and you'll be put right. I shall expect 
you, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, clapping him on 
the shoulder with the greatest enthusiasm, ‘* most 
jyfully. I shall have no peace or patience till 
you come. Print is now opening ahead of me. 
This night, a literary man—with a wooden leg—” 
he bestowed an admiring look upon that decora- 
tion, as if it greatly enhanced the relish of Mr. 
Wegg’s attainments—‘‘ will begin to lead me a 
new life! My fist again, Wegg. Morning, 
morning, morning!” 

Left alone at his stall as the other ambled off, 
Mr. Wegg subsided into his screen, produced a 
small pocket-lIfandkerchief of a penitentially- 
scrubbing character, and took himself by the 
nose with a thoughtful aspect. Also, while he 
still grasped that feature, he directed several 
thoughtful looks down the street, after the re- 
tiring figure of Mr. Boffin. But profound gray- 
ity sat enthroned on Wegg’s countenance. For, 
while he considered within himself that this was 
an old fellow of rare simplicity, that this was an 
opportunity to be improved, and that here might 
be money to be got beyond present calculation, 


i 


38 


still he compromised himself by no admission that 
his new engagement was at all out of his way, 
or involved the least element of the ridiculous. 
Mr. Wegg wonld even have picked a handsome 
quarrel with any one who should have chal- 
lenged his deep acquaintance with those afore- 
said eight volumes of Decline and Fall. His 
gravity was unusual, portentous, and immeas- 
urable, not because he admitted any doubt of 
himself, but because he perceived it necessary to 
forestall any doubt of himself in others. And 
herein he ranged with that very numerous class 
of impostors, who are quite as determined to 
keep up appearances to themselves, as to their 
neighbors, 

A certain loftiness, likewise, took possession 
of Mr. Wegg; a condescending sense of being 
in request as an official expounder of mysteries. 
It did not move him to commercial greatness, 
but rather to littleness, insomuch that if it had 
been within the possibilities of things for the 
wooden measure to hold fewer nuts than usual, 
it would have done so that day. But, when 
night came, and with her veiled eyes beheld 
him stumping toward Boffin’s Bower, he was 
elated too. 

The Bower was as difficult to find as Fair 
Rosamond’s without the clew. Mr. Wegg, hav- 
ing reached the quarter indicated, inquired for 
the Bower half a dozen times without the least 
success, until he remembered to ask for Har? 
mony Jail. ‘This occasiuned a quick change in 
the spirits of a hoarse gentleman and a donkey, 
whom he had much perplexed. 

‘Why, yer mean Old Harmon’s, do y@&?” 
said the hoarse gentleman, who was drivin? his 
donkey in a truck, with a carrot: for a whip. 
Ze Why didn’t yer niver say $0? Eddard and 
me is a goin’ by him! Jump in.’ 

Mr. Wegg complied, and the hoarse gentle- 
man invited his attention to the third person in 
company, thus: 

_ ** Now, you look at Eddard’s ears. 
it as you named, agin? Whisper.” 

Mr. Wegg whispered, ‘‘ Boffin’s Bower.” 

‘¢Eddard! (keep yer hi on his ears) cut away 
to Boffin’s Bower !” 

Edward, with his 
immovable. 

‘¢Eddard! (keep yer hi on his ears) cut away 
to Old Harmon’s.” 

Edward instantly pricked up his ears to their 
utmost, and rattled off at such a pace that Mr. 
Wegg’s conversation was jolted out of him ina 
most dislocated state. 

‘¢Was-it-Ev-verajail?” asked Mr. Wegg, hold- 
ing on. 

‘Not proper jail, wot you and me would get 
committed to,” returned his escort; ‘‘they giv’ 
it the name, on accounts of Old Harmon living 
solitary there.” 

** And-why-did-they-callitharm- Ony 2” asked 
Wegg. 

“On accounts of his never agreeing, with no- 
body. Like aspeeches of chaff. Harmon’s Jail; 

Harmony Jail. Working it round like.”’ 

* — ** Doyouknow-Mist-Erboff-in ?” asked Wegg. 

“‘T should think so! Every body do about 
here. Eddard knows him. (Keep yer hi on his 

ears.) Noddy Bofiin, Eddard!” 

The effect of the name was so very alarming, 
in respect of causing a ala disappearance 


What was 


ears lying back, remained 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


of Edward’s head, casting his hind hoofs in the 
air, greatly accelerating the pace and increasing | 
the jolting, that Mr. Wegg was fain to devote 
his attention exclusively to holding on, and to. 
relinquish his desire of ascertaining whether this — 
homage to Boffin was to be considered compli- — 
mentary or the reverse. 

Presently, Edward stopped at a gateway, and 
Wegg discreetly lost no time in slipping out at 
the back of the truck. The moment he was 
landed, his late driver, with a wave of the carrot, 
said, ‘* Supper, Eddard !” and he, the hind hoofs, 
the truck, and Edward, all seemed to fly into the 
air together, in a kind ‘of apotheosis. 

Pushing the gate, which stood ajar, Weil 
looked into an inclosed space where certain tall 
dark mounds rose high against the sky, and 
where the pathway to the Bower was indicated, 
as the moonlight showed, between two lines of 
broken crockery set in ashes. A white figure ad-~ 
vancing along this path, proved to be nothing 
more ghostly than Mr. Boffin, easily attired for 
the pursuit of knowledge, in an undress garment 
of short white smock-frock. Having received 
his literary friend with great cordiality, he con- 
ducted him to the interior of the Bower and 
there presented him to Mrs. Boffin:—a stout 


| lady of a rubicund and cheerful aspect, dressed 


(to Mr. Wegg’s consternation) in a low evening- 
dress of sable satin, and a large black velvet hat 
and feathers. 

‘*Mrs. Boffin, Wegg,”’ said Boffin, ‘‘is a high- 
flier at Fashion. And her make is such, that 
she does it credit. As to myself, I ain’t yet as 
Fash’nable as I may come to be. Henerietty, 
old lady, this is the gentleman that’s a-going to 
decline and fall off the Rooshan Empire.” 

“And I am sure [ hope it’ll do you both 
good,” said Mrs. Boffin. 

It was the queerest of rooms, fitted and fur- 
nished more like a luxurious amateur tap-room — 
than any thing else within the ken of Silas Wegg. 
‘There were two wooden settles by the fire, one 
on either side of it, with a corresponding table 
before each. On one of these tables the eight 
volumes were ranged flat, in a row, like a gal- ~ 
ranic battery; on the other, certain squat case- 
bottles of inviting appearance seemed to stand 
on tip-toe to exchange glances with Mr. Wegg — 
over a front row of tumblers and a basin of white 
sugar. Qn the hob, a kettle steamed; on the 
hearth, a cat reposed. Facing the fire between 
the settles, a sofa, a foot-stool, and a little table, 
formed a centre-piece devoted to Mrs. Boffin. 
They were garish in taste and color, but were 
expensive articles of drawing-room furniture that 
had a very odd look beside the settles and the 
flaring gaslight pendent from the ceiling. There 
was a flowery carpet on the floor; but, instead 
of reaching to the fireside, its Flowing vegetation 
stopped short at Mrs. Boftin’s footstool, and gave 
place to a region of sand and saw-dust. Mi 
Wegg also noticed, with admiring eyes, that, 
while the flowery land displayed such hollow 
ornamentation as stuffed birds and waxen fruits 


under glass-shades, there were, in the, territory 


where vegetation ceased, compensatory shelves 
on which the best part of a large pie and like-~ 
wise of a cold joint were plainly discernible 
among other solids. The room itself was large, 
though low; and the heavy frames of its old-— 
fashioned windows, and the heavy beams in its — 


* 
Us 


crooked ceiling, seemed to indicate that it had 
once been a house of some mark standing alone 
in the country. 

_ **Do you like it, Wegg?” asked Mr. Boffin, 
in his pouncing manner. 

‘**LT admire it greatly, Sir,” said Wegg. 

_ euliar comfort at this fireside, Sir.” 
‘Do you understand it, Wegg ?” 

*“ Why, in a general way, Sir,” Mr. Wegg was 
beginning slowly and knowingly, with his head 
stuck on one side, as evasive people do begin, 
when the other cut him short: 

**You don’t understand it, Wegg, and I’ll ex- 
plainit. These arrangements is made by mutual 
consent between Mrs. Boffinand me. Mrs. Bof- 
fin, as I’ve mentioned, is a highflier at Fashion; 
at present 1m not. Idon’tgo higher than com- 
fort, and comfort of the sort that I’m equal to 
the enjyment of. Well then. Where would be 
the good of Mrs. Boffin and me quarreling over 

it? We never did quarrel, befure we come 
into Boffin’s Bower as a property; why quarrel 

when we have come into Boffin’s Bower as a 
property? So Mrs. Boffin, she keeps up her 
part of the room, in her way; I keep up my 
part of the room in mine. 
which we have at once, Sociability (I should go 
melancholy mad without Mrs. Boftin), Fashion, 
and Comfort. If I get by degrees to be a high- 
er-flicr at Fashion, then Mrs. Boffin will by de- 
grees come for’arder. If Mrs. Boffin should 
ever be less of a dab at Fashion than she is at 
the present time, then Mrs. Boffin’s carpet would 
go back’arder. If we should both continny as 
we are, why then here we are, and give us a kiss, 
old lady.” 

Mrs. Boffin, who, perpetually smiling, had 
approached and drawn her plump arm through 

cher lord’s, most willingly complied. Fashion, 
in the form of her black velvet hat and feathers, 
tried to preventsit; but got deservedly crushed 

in the endeavor. 

“So now, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, wiping his 
mouth with an air of much refreshment, ‘‘you 
begin to know us as we are. ‘This is a charm- 
ing spot, is the Bower, but you must get to ap- 
prechiate it by degrees. It’s a spot to find out 
the merits of, little by little, and a new’un every 
day. There's a serpentining walk up each of 
the mounds, that gives you the yard and neigh- 
borhood changing every moment. When you 
get to the top, there’s a view of the neighboring 
premises, not to be surpassed. The premises 
of Mrs. Boffin’s late father (Canine Provision 
Trade), you look down into, as if they was your 
own. And the top of the High Mound is crowned 
with a lattice-work Arbor, in which, if you don’t 
read out loud many a book in the summer, ay, 
and as a friend, drop many atime into poetry too, 
it sha’n’t be my fault. Now, what'll you read on?” 

“Thank you, Sir,” returned Wegg, as if there 

_Were nothing new in his reading at all. ‘I gen- 
erally do it on gin and water.” 

‘Keeps the organ moist, does it, Wegg?” 
asked Mr. Boffin, with innocent eagerness. 

** N-no, Sir,” replied Wegg, coolly, ‘‘I should 
hardly describe it so, Sir. I should say, mellers 
it, Mellers it, is the word I should employ, Mr. 
Boffin.” ‘grat 

His wooden conceit and craft kept exact pace 
with the delighted expectation of his victim. 
The visions rising before his mercenary mind, 


(35 Pe. 


[ 


In consequence of, 


OUR MUTUAL-FRIEND, 


| organ.” 


a 


38 


pf the many ways in which this connection was 
to be turned to account, never obscured the fore » 
most idea natural to a dull overreaching man, 
that he must not make himself too cheap. 

Mrs. Boffin’s Fashion, as a less inexorable 
deity than the idol usually worshiped under that 
name, did not forbid her mixing for her literary 
guest, or asking if he found ‘the result to his 
liking. On his returning a gracious answer 
and taking his place at the literary settle, Mr. 
Boffin began to compose himself as a listener, at 
the opposite settle, with exultant eyes. 

‘Sorry to deprive you of a pipe, Wegg,” he 
said, filling his own, ‘t but you can’t do both to- 
gether. Oh! and another thing I forgot. to 
name! When you come in here of an evening, 
and look round you, and notice any thing on a 
shelf that happens to catch your fancy, mention 
1h? 

Wegg, who had heen going to put on his 
spectacles, immediately laid them down, with 
the sprightly observation: 

‘You read my thoughts, Sir, Do my eves 
deceive me, or is that object up there a—a pie? 
It can’t be a pie.” 

‘Yes, it’s a pic, Wegg,” replied Mr. Boffin, 
with a glance of some little discomfiture at the 
Decline and Fall. 

‘‘Have I lost my smell for fruits, or is it a 
apple-pie, Sir?” asked Wegg. 

**It’s a veal and ham pie,” said Mr. Boffin. 

*‘Is it indeed, Sir? And it would be hard, 
‘Sir, to name the pie that is a better pie than a 
weal and hammer,” said Mr. Wegg, nodding 
his head emotionally. 

‘‘ Have some, Wegg ?” 

‘Thank you, Mr. Boffin, I think I will, at 
your invitation. I wouldn’t at any other party’s, 
at the present juncture; but at yours, Sir! 
And meaty jelly too, especially when a little 
salt, which is the case where there’s ham, is 
mellering to the organ, is very mellering to the 
Mr. Wegg did not say what organ, 
but spoke with a cheerful generality. 

So the pie was brought down, and the worthy 
Mr. Boffin exercised his patience until Wegg, in 
the exercise of his knife and fork, had finished 
the dish: only profiting by the opportunity to 
inform Wegg that, although it was not strictly 
Fashionable to keep the contents of @ larder 
thus exposed to view, he (Mr. Boffin) considered 
it hospitable; for the reason, that instead of say- 
ing, in a comparatively nnmeaning manner, to a 
visitor, ‘There are such and such edibles down 
stairs ; will you have any thing up?’ yon took 
the bold practical course of saying, ‘Cast your 
eye along the shelves, and, if you see any thing 
you like there, haye it down.’ ” 

And now, Mr. Wegg at length pushed. away 
his plate and put on his spectacles, and Mr. 
Boffin lighted his pipe and looked with beaming 
eves into the opening world before him, and Mrs. 
Boffin reclined in a fashionable manner on her 
sofa: as one who would be part of the audience 
if she found she could, and would go to sleep if 
she found she couldn’t. 

‘*Hem!” began Wegg, ‘‘This, Mr. Boffin and 
Lady, is the first chapter of the first wollume of 
the Decline and Fall off—” hey he looked fiard 
at the book, and stopped. © ; 

‘¢ What’s the matter, Wegg ?” 

‘¢ Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, 


40. 


Sir,” said Wegg, with an air of insinuating 
frankness (having first again looked hard at the 
book), ‘‘that you made a little mistake this 
morning, which I had meant to set you right 
in, only something put it out of my head. I 
think you said Rooshan Empire, Sir?” 

‘It is Rooshan; ain’t it, Wegg ?” 

“No, Sir. Roman. Roman.” 

‘CWhat’s the difference, Wegg ?” 

“The difference, Sir?” Mr. Wegg was fal- 
tering and in danger of breaking down, when a 
bright thought flashed upon him, ‘The differ- 
ence, Sir? There you place me in a difficulty, 
Mr. Boftin. Suffice it to observe, that the dif- 
ference is best postponed to some other oceasion 
when Mrs. Boffin does not honor us witi. her 
company. In Mrs. Boffin’s presence, Sir, we 
had better drop it.” 

Mr, Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage 
with quite a chivalrous air, and not only that, 
but by dint of repeating with a manly delicagy, 
‘‘In Mrs. Boffin’s presence, Sir, we had better 


drop it!’ turned the disadvantage on Boffin, who | 


felt that he had’ committed himself in a very 
painful manner. 

Then, Mr. Wegg, in a dry unflinching way, 
entered on his task; going straight across coun- 
try at every thing that came before him ; taking 
all the hard words, biographical.and geograph- 
ical ;getting rather shaken by Hadhian, ‘Trajan, 
and the Antonines; stumbling at Polybius (pro- 
nounced Polly Beeious, and supposed by Mr. 
Boftin to be a Roman virgin, and by Mrs. Boffins 
to be responsible for that necessity of dropping 
it); heavily unseated by Titus Antoninus Pius ; 
up again and galloping smoothly with Augustus ; 
finally, getting over the ground well with Com- 
modus: who, unde: the appellation of Commo- 
dious, was held by Mr. Boftin to have been quite 
wnworthy of his English origin, and ‘‘not to 
have acted up to his name” in his government of 
the Roman people. With the death of this per- 
sonage, Mr. Wegg terminated his first reading 5 
long before which consummation several total 
eclipses of Mrs. Boffin’s candle behind her black 
velyet disk, would have been very alarming, but 
for being regularly accompanied by a potent 
smell of burnt pens when her feathers took fire, 
which acted as a restorative and woke her. Mr. 
Weeg, having read on by rote and attached as 
fa ideas as possible to the text, came out of the 
encounter fresh; but, Mr. Boffin, who had soon 
laid down his unfinished pipe, and had ever since 
sat intently staring with his eyes and mind at 
the confounding enormities of the Romans, was 
so severely punished that he could hardly wish 
his literary friend Good-night, and articulate 
‘¢'l'o-morrow.” 

‘« Commodious,”’ gasped Mr. Boffin, staring at 
the moon, after letting Wegg out at the. gate 
and fastening it: ‘‘Commodious fights in that 
wild-beast-show, seven hundred and thirty-five 
times, in one character-only! As if that wasn’t 
stunning enough, a hundred lions is turned into 
the. same wild-beast-show all at once! Asif that 
wasn’t stunning enough, Commodious, in another 
character, kills ’em all off in a hundred goes! 
As if that wasn’t stunning enough, Vittle-us (and 
well named too)gats six millions’ worth, English 
money, in seven months! Wegg takes it easy, 
but upon-my-soul to a old bird like myself these 
are scarers, And even now that Commodious is 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


strangled, I don’t see a way to our bettering our- _ 
selves.” Mr. Boffin added, as he turned his pen. 
sive steps toward the Bower and shook his head, 
‘¢T didn’t think this morning there was half so 
many Scarers in Print. But I’m in for it ngw " 


— 


CHAPTER VI. 
CUT ADRIFT. 


Tue Six Jolly Fellowship - Porters, already 
mentioned as atavern of a dropsical appearance, 
had long settled down into a state of hale infirm- 
ity. Inits whole constitution it had nota straight 
floor, and hardly a straight line; but it had out- 
lasted, and clearly would yet outlast, many a 
better-trimmed building, many a sprucer public 
house. Externally, it was a narrow lopsided 
wooden jumble of corpulent windows heaped one 
upon another as you might heap as many top> — 
pling oranges, with a crazy wooden veranda — 
impending over the water; indeed the whole 
house, inclusive of the complaining flag-staff on 
the roof, impended over the water, but seemed — 
to have got into the condition of a faint-hearted — 
diver who has paused so long on the brink that — 
he will never go in at all, : a 

This description applies to the river-frentage 
of the Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters. The back 
of the establishment, though the chief entrance 
was there, so contracted that it merely repre- 
sented in its connection with the front, the han-_ 
dle of a flat-iron set upright on its broadest end. 
This handle stood at the bottom of a wilderness 
of court and alley: which wilderness pressed so 
hard and close upon the Six Jolly Fellowship- 


Porters as to leave the hostelry not an inch of — 


ground beyond its door. For this reason, in. 
combination with the fact that the house was” 
all but afloat at high-water, when the Porters 
had a family wash the linen subjected to that 
operation might usually be seen drying on lines” 
stretched across the reception-rooms and bed+ 
chambers. 

The wood forming the chimney-pieces, beams, — 
partitions, floors and doors, of the Six Jolly Fel- 
lowship-Porters, seemed in its old age franght 
with confused memories of its youth. In many 


places it had become gnarled and riven, accord- 


ing to the manner of old trees; knots started ont 
of it; and here and there it seemed to twist 1t-— 
self into some likeness of boughs. In this state 


of second childhood it had an air of being in its 


own way garrulous about its early life. Not 
without reason was it often asserted by the reg- 
ular frequenters of the Porters, that when the™ 
light shone full upon the grain of certain panels, 
and particularly upon an old corner cupboard of © 
walnut-wood in the bar, you might trace little 
forests there, and tiny trees like the parent tree, 
in full umbrageous leaf. 
The bar of the Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters” 
was a bar to soften the buman breast. The 
available space in it was not much larger than a 
hackney-coach; but no one could have wished 
the bar bigger, that space was so girt in by cor-_ 
pulent little casks, and by cordial-bottles radiant 
with fictitious grapes in bunches, and by lemons 
in nets, and by biscuits in baskets, and by the 
polite beer-pulls that made low bows when cus~ 
tomers were served with beer, and by the cheese 


aa 
: 


-in/a snug corner, and by the landlady’s own 
small table in a snugger corner near the fire, 
with the cloth everlastingly laid. This haven 
was divided from the rough world by a glass 
partition and a half door, with a leaden sill upon 
,it for the convenience of resting your liquor ; 
- but, over this half door the bar’s snugness so 
- gushed forth, that, albeit customers drank there 
standing, in a dark and draughty passage where 
they were shouldered by other customers passing 
in and out, they always appeared to drink under 
an enchanting delusion that they were in the bar 
itself. 
Hor the rest, both the tap and parlor of the 
Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters gave upon the river, 
.and had red curtains matching the noses of the 
_ regular customers, and were provided with com- 
Jortable fireside tin utensils, like models of sugar- 
louf hats, made in that shape that they might, 
with their pointed ends, seek out for themselves 
glowing nooks in the depths of the red coals, 
when they mulled your ale, or heated for you 
those delectable drinks, Purl, Flip, and Dog’s 
Nose. ‘The first of these humming compounds 
was a specialty of the Porters, whieh, through 
an inscription on its door-posts, gently appealed 


to your feelings as, ‘‘The Early Purl House.” 


For, it would seem that Purl must always be 
taken early; though whether for any more dis- 
tinctly stomachic reason than that, as the early 
bird catches the worm, so the early purl catches 
the customer, can not here be resolved. It only 
remains to add that in the handle of the flat- 
iron, and opposite the bar, was a very little. room 
like a three-cornered hat, into which no direct 
¥ay of sun, moon, or star, ever penetrated, but 
which was superstitiously regarded as a sanctu- 
ary replete with comfort and retirement by gas- 
Tight, and on the door of which was therefore 
painted its alluring name: Cozy. 

Miss Potterson, sole proprietor and manager 
of the Fellowship-Porters, reigned supreme on 
her throne, the Bar, and a man must have drunk 
himself mad drunk indeed if he thought he could 

contest a point with her. Being known on her 
own authority as Miss Abbey Potterson, some 
water-side heads, which (like the water) were 
none of the clearest, harbored muddled notions 
that, because of her dignity and firmness, she 
Was named after, or in some sort related to, the 
Abbey at Westminster. But, Abbey was only 
short for Abigail, by which name Miss Potter- 
son had been christened at Limehouse Church, 
some sixty and odd years_before. 

** Now, you mind, you Riderhood,” said Miss 
Abbey Potterson, with emphatic forefinger over 
the half door, ‘‘the Fellowships don’t want you 
at all, and would rather by far have your room 
than your company ; but if you weré as welcome 
here as you are not, you shouldn’t even then have 
another drop of drink here this night, after this 
present pint of beer. So make the most of it:? 

“But you know, Miss Potterson,” this was 
suggested very meekly though, ‘if I behave my- 
self, you can’t help serving me, miss.” 

_ * Can't 1!” said Abbey, with infinite expres- 
sion. 

*‘No, Miss Potterson ; because, you see, the 
law—” We 

“Lam the law here, my man,” returned Miss 
Abbey, ‘‘and I’ll soon convince you of that, if 
you doubt it at all.” 


we 


4 
, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ship-Porters is not to be free to 


“41 
‘“‘I never said I did doubt it at all, Miss 
Abbey.” 

‘So much the better for you.” 

Abbey the supreme threw the customer’s half- 
pence into the till, and, seating herself in her 
fireside-chair, resumed the newspaper she had 
been reading. She was a tall, upright, well- 
favored woman, though severe of countenance, 
and had more of the air of a schoolmistress than 
mistress of the Six Jolly Fellowship - Porters, 
The man on the other side of the half door was 
a water-side man with a squinting leer, and he 
eyed her as if he were one of her pupils in dis- 
grace. : 

‘* You're cruel hard upon me, Miss Potterson.” 

Miss Potterson read her newspaper with con- 
tracted brows, and took no notice until he whis« 
pered: 

‘Miss Potterson! Ma’am! 
half a word with you?” 

Deigning then to turn her eyes sideways to- 
ward the suppliant; Miss Potterson beheld him 
knuckling his low forehead, and ducking at her 
with his head, as if he were asking leave to fling 
himself head foremost. over the half door and 
alight on his feet in the bar, . 

‘* Well?” said Miss Potterson, with a manner 
as short as she herself was lung, “ say your half 
word. Bring it out.” 

‘Miss VPotterson! Ma’am! Wonul# you 
*sxcuse me taking the liberty of asking, is it my 
character that you take objections to?” 

‘* Certainly,” said Miss Potterson. 

“Is it that yowre afraid of —” 

“Iam not afraid of you,” interposed Miss 
Potterson, ‘if you mean that.” 

** But I humbly don’t mean that, Miss Abbey.” 

**Then what do you mean ?” 

“You really are so cruel hard upon me! 
What I was going to make inquiries was no 
more than, might you have any apprehensions 
— leastways beliefs or Suppositions — that the 
company’s property mightn’t be altogether to he 


Might I have 


considered safe, if I used the house too regular ?’”” 


** What do you want to know for?” 

‘Well, Miss Abbey, respectfully meaning no, 
offense to you, it would-be some satisfaction to. 
& man’s mind to understand why the Fellow- 
such as me, and 
is to be free to such as Gaffer.” 

The face of the hostess darkened with some 
shadow of perplexity, as she replied: ‘Gaffer 
has never been where you have been.” 

‘Signifying in Quod, Miss ? Perhaps not. 
But he may have merited it. He may be sus-. 
pected of far worse than ever I was.” 

‘* Who suspects him ?” 

‘‘Many, perhaps. One, beyond all doubts. 
I do.” : 

** You are not much,” said Miss Abbey Pot-. 
terson, knitting her brows again with disdain. 

‘But I was his pardner. Mind yon, Miss. 
Abbey, I was his pardner. As such I know 
more of the ins and outs of him than any person 
living does. Notice this!’ I am the man that 
was his pardner, and I am the man that sus- 
pects him.” : 

‘*'Then,”’ suggested Miss Abhey, though with, 
a deeper shade of perplexity than before, * you 
criminate yourself.” 

‘*No I don’t, Miss Abbey. For how does it 
stand? It stands this way. When I was hig 


42 


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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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pardner, I couldn’t never give him satisfaction. | 
Why couldn't I never give him satisfaction? 
Because my luck was bad; because I couldn’t 
fin.] many enough of ’em. How was his luck? 
Always good. Notice this! Always good! Ah! 
'There’s a many games, Miss Abbey, in which 
there’s chance, but there’s a many others in) 
which there’s skill too, mixed along with it.” 
‘That Gaffer has a skill in finding what he 
finds, who doubts, man?” asked Miss Abbey. 
‘CA skill in purwiding what he finds, per- 
haps,” said Riderhood, shaking his evil head. 
Miss Abbey knitted her brow at him, as he 
darkly leered ateher. 
‘<Tf you're ont upon the river pretty nigh ev- 
ery tide, and if you want to find a man or woman 
in the river, you'll greatly help your luck, Miss, 


Abbey, by knocking a man or woman on the 
head aforehand and pitching ’em in.” . 
‘‘Gracious Lud!”) was the involuntary: ex- 
clamation of Miss Potterson. : 
‘Mind you!” returned the other, stretching 
forward over the half door to throw his words 
into the bar; for his voice was as if the head of 
his boat’s mop were down his throat; “I say 
so, Miss Abbey! And mind you! Vil follow 
him up, Miss Abbey! And mind you! Vi 
bring him to book at last, if it’s twenty year 
hence, I will! Who’s he, to be favored along 
of his daughter? Ain’t I got a daughter of my 
own!” oi 
With that flourish, and seeming to have talked 
himself rather more drunk and much more fero- 
cious than he had begun by being, Mr. Rider- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEN> : 43 


4 
hood took up his pint pot and swaggered off to 
the tap-room. 


Gaifer was not there, but a pretty strong mus- 


ter of Miss Abbey’s pupils were, who exhibited, 
When occasion required, the greatest docility, 
On the clock’s striking ten, and Miss Abbey’s 
appearing at the door, and addressing a certain 
person in a faded scarlet jacket, with George 
Jones, your time’s up! I told your wife you 
should be punctual,” Jones submissively rose, 
gave the company good-night, and retired. At 
half-past ten, on Miss Abbey’s looking in again, 
and saying, *¢ William Williams, Bob Glamour, 
and Jonathan, you are all due,” Williams, Bob, 
and Jonathan with similar meekness.-took their 
leave and evaporated. Greater wonder than 
these, when a bottle-nosed person in a glazed 
that had after some considerable hesitation or- 
dered another glass of gin-and-water of the at- 
_tendant pot-boy, and when Miss Abbey, instead 
of sending it, gPpeared in person, saying, ‘‘ Cap- 
tain Joey, you have had as much as will do you 
good,” not only did the captain feebly rub his 
knees and contemplate the fire without offering 
a word of protest, but the rest of the company 
murmured, ‘‘Ay, ay, Captain, Miss Abbey’s 
right; you be guided by Miss Abbey, Captain.” 
Nor was Miss Abbey’s vigilance in anywise abat- 
ed by this submission, but rather sharpened ; for, 
ooking round on the deferential faces of her 
chool, and descrying two other young persons in 
eed of admonition, she thus bestowed it: ‘‘‘Tom 
Lootle, it’s time for a young fellow who’s going 
0 be married next month, to be at home and 
sleep. And you needn’t nudge him, Mr. Jack 
Mullins, for.I know your work begins early to- 
morrow, and I séy the same to you... So.come! 
Good-night, like good lads!” Upon which, the 
blushing Tootle looked to Mullins, and the blush- 
ing Mullins looked to Tootle, on the question 
who should rife first, and finally both rose to- 
gether and went out on the broad grin, followed 
by Miss Abbey; in whose presence the company 
did not take the liberty of grinning likewise. 
In such an establishment, the white-aproned 


pot-boy with his shirt-sleeves arranged in a tight | 


roll on each bare shoulder, was a mere hint of 

the possibility of physical force, thrown out as a 
matter of state and form. ‘Exactly at the closing 
hour, all the guests who were left filed out in 
the best order: Miss Abbey standing at the half 
door of the bar, to hold a ceremony of review 
and dismissal. All wished Miss Abbey good- 
night, and Miss Abbey wished good-night to all, 
except Riderhood. The sapient pot-boy, looking 
on officially, then had the conviction bornesin 
upon his soul, that the man was evermore out- 
cast and excommunicate from the Six Jolly Fel- 
lowship-Porters. ; 

** You Bob Glibbery,” said Miss Abbey to this 
pot-boy, “run round to Hexam’s and tell his 
daughter Lizzie that { want to speak to her.” 

With exemplary swiftness Bob Glibbery de- 
parted, and returned. Lizzie, following him, 
arrived as one of the two female domestics of 
the Fellowship-Porters arranged on the snug 
little table by the bar fire Miss Potterson’s Sup 
per of hot sausages and mashed potatoes. 

_ **Come in and sit ye down, gil,” said Miss 
Abbey. Can you eat a bit 2” 
_ “No, thank you, Miss. I have had my sup- 

ARS 


per. 


““T have had mine too, I think,” said Miss 
Abbey, pushing away the untasted dish, ‘‘and 
more than enough of it. Iam put out, Lizzie.” 

‘*f am very sorry for it, Miss.” 

‘* Then why, in the name of Goodness,” quoth 
Miss Abbey, sharply, ‘do you do it?” 

‘* I do it, Miss!” 

“There, there! Don’t look astonished. I 
ought to have begun with a word of explanation, 
but it’s my way to make short cuts at things. [ 
always was a pepperer. You Bob Glibbery there, 
put the chain upon the door and get ye down to 
your supper.” 

With an alacrity that seemed no less referable 
to the pepperer fact than to the supper fact, Bob 
obeyed, and his boots were heard descending to- 
ward the bed of the river. 
~ Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam,”’ then began 
Miss Potterson, ‘*how often have I held out to 
you the opportunity of getting clear of your fa- 
ther, and doing well ?” 

—** Very often, Miss.” 

“Very often? Yes! And I might as well 
have spoken to the iron funnel of the strongest 
sca-going steamer that passes the Fellowship- 
Porters.” 

‘*No, Miss,” Lizzie pleaded: ‘because that 
would not be thankful, and I am.” : 

“I vow and declare I am half ashamed of 
myself for taking such an interest in you,” said 
Miss Abbey, pettishly, ‘for I don’t believe I 
should do it if you were not good-looking. Why 
ain’t you ugly ?” 

Lizzie merely answered this difficult question 
with an apologetic glance. 

‘* However, you ain’t,” resumed Miss Pot- 
terson, ‘‘so it’s no use going into that. I must 
take you asI find you. Which indeed is what 
I’ve done. And you mean to say you are still 
obstinate ?” 

‘* Not obstinate, Miss, I hope.” 

“Firm (I suppose you call it) then?” 

** Yes, Miss. Fixed like.” 

‘‘Never was an obstinate person yet, who 
would own to the word!” remarked Miss Pot- 
terson, rubbing her vexed nose; ‘I’m sure I 
would, if I was obstinate; but Iam a pepperer, 
which is different. Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hex- 
am, think again. Do you know the worst of your 
father ?” 


ed, opening her eyes. 

‘‘Do you know the suspicions to which your 
father makes himself liable? Do you know the 
| Suspicions that are actually about against him ?” 

The consciousness of what he habitually did 
oppressed the girl heavily, and she slowly cast 
| down her eyes. 

‘Say, Lizzie. 
Abbey. 

‘* Please to tell me what the suspicions are, 
Miss,” she asked after a’ silence, with her eyes 
upon the ground. . . 

«It’s not an easy thing to tell a daughter, but 
‘it must be told. It is thought by some, then, 

that your father helps to their death a few of 
those that he finds dead.” 

The relief of hearing what she felt sure was 
_4 false suspicion, in place of the expected real 
| and trne one, so lightened Lizzie’s breast for 
the moment, that Miss Abbey was amazed at 
| her demeanor, 


Do you know?” urged Miss 


“Do I know the worst of father!” she repeat-_ 


She raised her eyes quickly, . — 


ee 


rl 


44 
| 

shook her head, and, in a kind of triumph, al- 

most laughed. 

‘¢ They little know father who talk like that!” 

(**She takes it,” thought Miss Abbey, ‘‘ very 
quietly. She takes it with extraordinary quiet- 
ness !’”) ; 

‘« And perhaps,” said Lizzie, as a recollection 
flashed upon her, ‘‘it is some one who has a 
grudge against father; some one who has threat- 
ened father! Is it Riderhood, Miss?” 

‘Wells yes it. is.” 

“Yes! He was father’s partner, and father 
broke with him, and now he revenges himself. 
Father broke with him when I was by, and he 
was very angry at it, And besides, Miss Ab- 
bey !—Will you never, without strong reason, 
let pass your lips what I am going to say?” 

She bent forward to say it in a whisper. 

‘<1 promise,” said Miss Abbey. 

‘‘Tt was on the night when the Harmon mur- 
der was found out, through father, just above 
bridge. And just below bridge, as we were 
sculling home, Riderhood crept out of the dark 
in his boat. And many and many times after- 
ward, when such great pains were taken to come 
to the bottom of the crime, and it never could 
be come near, I thought in my own thoughts, 
could Riderhood himself have done the murder, 
and did he purposely let father find the body? 
Tt seemed a’most wicked and cruel to so much 
as think such a thing; but now that he tries to 
throw it upon father, I go back to it as if it was 
atruth. Can itbe atruth? ‘That was put into 
my mind by the dead ?” 

She asked this question rather of the fire than 
of the hostess of the Fellowship-Porters, and 
looked round the little bar with troubled eyes. 

But, Miss Potterson, as a ready school mis- 
tress accustomed to bring her pupils to book, set 
the matter in a light that was essentially of this 
world. 

‘You poor deluded girl,” she said, ‘don't 
you see that you can’t open your mind to par- 
ticular suspicions of one of the two, without 
opening your mind to general suspicions of the 
other? They had worked together. Their go- 
ings-on had been going on for sometime. Even 
granting that it was as you have had in your 
thoughts, what the two had done together would 
come familiar to the mind of one.” 

“You don’t know father, Miss, when you 
talk like that. Indeed, indeed, you don’t know 
father.”’ 

‘‘ Lizzie, Lizzie,” said Miss Potterson. ‘‘ Leave 
him. . You needn't break with him altogether, 
but leave him. Do well away from him; not 
because of what I have told you to-night—we'll 
pass no judgment upon that, and we'll hope it 
may not. be—but because of what I have urged 
on you before. No matter whether it’s owing to 
your good looks or not, I like you and I want 
to serve you. Lizzie, come under my direction. 
Don’t fling yourself away, my girl, but be per- 


~ suaded into being respectable and happy.” 


In the sound good feeling and good sense of 
her entreaty, Miss Abbey had softened into a 
soothing tone, and had even drawn her arm 
round the girl’s waist. But she only replied, 
“Thank you, thank you! Ican’t. I won't. I 
must not think of it. The harder father is borne 
upon, the more he needs me to lean on.” 

And then Miss Abbey, who, like all hard peo- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


a 


ple when they do soften, felt that there was con- — 


siderable compensation owing to her, underwent 
reaction and became frigid. 


‘T have done what I can,” she said, ‘‘and : 


you must go your way. You make your bed, 
and you must.lie on it. But tell your father one. 
thing; he must not come here any more.” | 
‘Oh, Miss, will you forbid him the house 
where I know he’s safe ?” ae | 


‘“The Fellowships,” returned Miss Abbey,  ~ 


“las itself to look to, as well as others. It 
has been hard work to establish order here, and 
make the Fellowships what it is, and it is daily 
and nightly hard work to keep it so.. The Fel- 
lowships must not have a taint upon it that may 
give it a bad name. I forbid the house to Rider- 
hood, and I forbid the house to Gaffer. 
bid both, equally. I find from Riderhood and 
vou together, that there are suspicions against 
both men, and I’m not going to take upon my- 
self to decide betwixt them. ‘They are beth 
tarred with a dirty brush, and I can’t have the 
Fellowships tarred with the same brush. That’s 
all J know.” 

‘* Good-night, Miss!’’ said Lizzie Hexam, sor- 
rowfully. 

‘Hah !—Good-night!” returned Miss Abbey 
with a shake of her head. 

‘‘ Believe me, Miss Abbey, I am truly grates 
ful all the same.” , 

‘‘T can believe a good deal,” returned the 
stately Abbey, ‘‘so I'll try to believe that too, 
Lizzie.” 

No supper did Miss Potterson take that night, 


and only half her usual tumbler of hot Port Ne- — 
And the female domestics—two robust ~ 


gus. 
sisters, with staring black eyes, shining flat red 


faces, blunt noses, and strong black curls, like i 
dolls—interchanged the sentiment that Missis — 


had had her hair combed the wrong way by 
somebody. And the pot-boy afterward remark- 
ed, that he hadn’t been “‘so rattled to bed” since 
his late mother had systematically accelerated 
his retirement to rest with a poker. 

The chaining of the door behind her, as she 
went forth, disenchanted Lizzie Hexam of that 
first relief she had felt. 
and shrill, the river-side wilderness was melxn- 
choly, and there was a sound of casting-out, in 
the rattling of the iron-links, and the grati: g of 
the bolts and staples under Miss Abbey’s hand. 
As she came beneath the lowering sky, a sense 
of being involved in a murky shade of Murder 
dropped upon her; and, as the tidal swell of the 


‘river broke at her feet without her seeing how 
‘it»gathered, so, her thoughts startled her by 


rushing out of an unseen void and striking at 
her heart. pe: 
Of her father’s being groundlessly suspected, 
she felt sure. Sure. Sure. And yet, repeat 
the word inwardly as often as she would, the 
attempt to reason out and prove that she was 
sure, always came after it and failed. 


ther. 


The night was black — 


I for 9 


Rider= | 
hood had done the deed, and entrapped her fa= ~ 
Riderhood had not done the deed, but 
had resolved in his malice to turn against her — 
father the appearances that were ready to his” 
hand to distort. Equally and swiftly upon either 
putting of the case, followed the frightful possi-_ 
bility that her father, being innocent, yet might 
come to be believed guilty. She had heard of 
people suffering Death for bloodshed of which 


Amer us FS el os ia 


they were afterward proved pure, and those ill- 
fated persons were not, first, in that dangerous 
wrong in which her father stood. Then at the 
best, the beginning of his being set apart, whis- 
pered against, and avoided, was a certain fact. 
jit dated from that very night. And as-the great 
black river with its dreary shores was soon lost 
to her view in the gloom, so, she stood on the 
river’s brink unable to see into the vast blank 
misery of a life suspected, and fallen away from 
by good. and bad, but knowing that it lay there 
dim before her, stretching away to the great 
ocean, Death. 
One thing only was clear to the girl’s mind. 
 Accustomed from her very babyhood promptly 
to do the thing that could be done—whether to 
,keep out weather, to ward off cold, to postpone 
hunger, or what not—she started out of her 
meditation, and ran home. 
The room was quiet, and the lamp burnt on 
the table. In the bunk in the torner her broth- 
er lay asleep. She bent over him softly, kissed 
him, and came to the table. 
“By the time of Miss Abbey’s closing, and 
by the run of the tide, it must be one. Tide’s 
running up. Father at Chiswick, wouldn’t think 
of coming down till after the turn; and that’s at 
half after four. Ill call Charley at six. I shall 
hear the church-clocks strike as I sit here.” 
_ Very quietly she placed a chair before the 
‘scanty fire, and sat down in it, drawing her 
shawi about her. 

- **Charley’s hollow down by the flare is not 
there now. Poor Charley!” 
_ The clock struck two, and the clock struck 
three, and the clock struck four, and she remain- 
ed there, with a woman’s patience and her own 
purpose. When the morning was well on be- 
tween four and five, she slipped off her shoes 
(that her going about might not wake Charley), 
trimmed the fire sparingly, put water on to boil, 
and set the table for breakfast. Then she went 
up the ladder, lamp in hand, and came down 
again, and glided about and about, making a 
little bundle. Lastly, from her pocket, and from 
the chimney-piece, and from an inverted basin 
on the highest shelf, she brought. half-pence, a 
few sixpences, fewer shillings, and fell to labori- 
ously and noiselessly counting them, and setting 
aside one little heap. She was still so engaged, 
when she was startled by: 

‘*Hal-loa!” From her brother, sitting up in 

bed. 

**You made me jump, Charley.” 

“Jump! Didn't you make me jump, when 

I opened my eyes a moment ago, and sart you 
sitting there, like the ghost of a girl-miser, in 
the dead of the night ?” 

** It’s not the dead of the night, Charley. It’s 

nigh six in the morning.” 


*‘Isit though? But what are you up to, Liz?” 


** Still telling your fortune, Charley.” 

‘It seems to be a precious small one, if that’s 
it,” said the boy. ‘* What are you putting that 
little pile of money by itself for ?” 

**For you, Charley.” 
** What do you mean?” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


45 


again, and staring at her through a storm of 
toweling. 

‘*T never,” toweling at himself as if he were 
his bitterest enemy, ‘‘ saw such a girl as you are. 
What is the move, Liz?” 

. ‘Are you almost ready for breakfast, Char- 
ley ?” ; ? 

‘* You can pour it out. Hal-loa! Isay? And 
a bundle ?” 

‘* And a bundle, Charley.” 

‘* You don’t mean it’s for me, too ?” 

‘*Yes, Charley; I do, indeed.” 

More serious of face, and more slow of action, 
than he had been, the boy completed his dress- 
ing, and came and sat down at the little break- 
fast-table, with his eyes amazedly directed to 
her face. 

‘*You see, Charley dear, I have made up my 
mind that this is the right time for your going 
away from us. Over and above all the blessed 
change of by-and-by, you’ll be much happier, 
and do much better, even so soon as next month, 
Even so soon as next week.” 

‘* How do you know I shall?” 

‘*T don’t quite know how, Charley, but I do.” 
In. spite of her unchanged manner of speaking, 
and her unchanged appearance of composure, 
she scarcely trusted herself to look at him, but 
kept her eyes employed on the cutting and but- 
tering of his bread, and on the mixing of his 
tea, and other such little preparations. ‘‘You 
must leave father to me, Charley—I will do 
what I can with him—but you must go.” 

**You don’t stand upon ceremony, I think,” 
grumbled the boy, throwing his bread and but- 
ter about, in an‘ill humor. 

She made him no answer. 

‘*T tell you what,’’ said the boy, then, burst- 
ing out into an angry whimpering, ‘‘you’re a 
selfish jade, and you think there’s not enough 
for three of us, and you want to get rid of me.” ~ 

‘*Tf you believe so, Charley,—yes, then I be- 
lieve too, that I am a selfish jade, and that I 
think there’s not enough for three of us, and that 
I want to get rid of you.” : 3 

It was only when the boy rushed at her, and 
threw his arms round her neck, that she lost her 
self-restraint. But she lost it then, and wept 
over him. 

**Don’t cry, don’t cry! 
Liz; I am satisfied to go. 
away for my good.” 

‘‘Q, Charley, Charley, Heaven above us 
knows I do!” 

““Yes, yes. Don’t mind what I said. Don’t 
remember it. Kiss me.” : 

After a silence, she loosed him, to dry her 
eyes and regain her strong quiet influence. 

‘* Now listen, Charley dear. We both know 
it must be done, and I alone know there is good 
reason for its being done at once. Go straight 
to the school, and say that you and I agreed 
upon it—that we can’t ‘overcome father’s oppo- 
sition—that father will never trouble them, but 
will never take you back. You are a credit to. 
the school, and you will be a greater credit to it_ 
vet, and they will help you to get a living. Show 


I am satisfied to go, 
I know you send me 


“Get out of bed, Charley, and get washed | what clothes you have brought, and what money, 


and dressed, and then I'll tell you.” 
Her composed manner, and her low distinet 
 Yoice, always had an influence over him. 


Tlis ° 


and say that [ will send some more money. If 
I can get some in no other way, I will ask a 
little help of those two gentlemen who came 


head was soon in a basin of water, aud out of it, here that night.” 


46 


‘Tsay!’ cried her brother, quickly. ‘*‘ Don’t 
you have it of that chap that took hold of me by 
the chin! Don’t you have it of that Wrayburn 
one!” 

Perhaps a slight additional tinge of red flashed 
up into her face and brow, as with a nod she 
Jaid a hand upon his lips to keep him silently 
attentive. 

‘¢And above all things mind this, Charley! 


Be sure you always sjeak well of father. Be 
sure you always give father his full due. . You 


can’t deny, that because father has no learning 
himself he is set against it in you; but favor no- 
thing else against him, and be sure you say—as 
you know—that your sister is devoted to him. 
And if you should ever happen to hear any thing 
said against father that is new to you, it will 
not be true. Remember, Charley! It will not 
be true.” 

The boy looked at her with some donbt and 
surprise, but she went on again without heed- 
ing it. 

‘‘Above all things, remember! It will not be 
true. I have nothing more to say, Charley dear, 
except, be good, and get learning, and only think 
of some things in the old life here, as if you,had 
dreamed them in a dream last night. Good-by, 
my Darling!” 

Though so young, she infused into these part- 
ing words a love that was far more like a mo- 
ther’s than a sister’s, and before which the boy 
was quite bowed down. After holding her to 
his breast with a passionate cry, he took up his 
bundle and darted out at the door, with an arm 
across his eyes. 

The white face of the winter day came slug- 
gishly on, veiled in a frosty mist; and the shad- 
owy ships in the river slowly changed to black 
substances; and the sun, blood-red on the east- 
ern marshes behind dark masts and yards, seemed 
filled with the ruins of a forest it had set on fire. 
Lizzie, looking for her father, saw him coming, 
and stood upon the causeway that he might see 
her. 

He had nothing with him but his boat, and 
came on apace. <A knot of those amphibious 
human creatures who appear to have some mys- 
terious power of extracting a subsistence out of 
tidal water by looking at it, were gathered to- 
gether about the causeway. As her father’s 
boat grounded, they became contemplative of 
the mud, and dispersed themselves. She saw 
that the mute avoidance had begun. 

Gaffer saw it, too, in so far as that he was 
moved when he set foot on shore, to stare around 
him. But he promptly set to work to haul up 
his boat, and make her fast, and take the sculls 
and rndder and rope out of her. Carrying these 
with Lizzie’s aid, he passed up to his dwelling. 

‘Sit close to the fire, father, dear, while I 
cook your breakfast. It’s all ready for cooking, 
and only been waiting for you. You must be 
frozen.” 

“Well, Lizzie, I ain’t of a glow; that’s cer- 
tain. And my hands seemed nailed through to 
the sculls. See how dead they are!” Some- 
thing suggestive in their color, and perhaps in 
her face, struck him as he held them up; he 
turned his shoulder and held them down to the 
fire. 

“You were not out in the perishing night, I 
hope, father ?” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘No, my dear, Lay aboard a barge, by a 
blazing coal-fire.—Where’s that boy 2” 

‘*'There’s a drop of brandy fur your tea, father, 
if you'll put it in while I turn this bit of meat. 
If the river was'to get frozen, there would be a 
deal of distress; wouldn't thereszfather ?” 

‘‘Ah! there’s always enough of that,” said 
Gaffer, dropping the liquor into his cup from a 
squat black bottle, and dropping it slowly that 
it might seem more; ‘‘ distress is forever a-going 
about, like sut in the air—Ain’t that boy up 
yet?” 

‘<The meat’s ready now, father. 
it’s hot and comfortable, After you have fin- 
ished, we'll turn round to the fire and talk.” 

But he perceived that he was evaded, and, 
having thrown a hasty angry glance toward the 
bunk, plucked at a corner of her apron and 
asked : 

‘‘What’s gone with that boy.2” 

‘Father, if you’ll begin your breakfast, Ill 
sit by and tell you.” 

He looked at her, stirred his tea and took two 
or three gulps, then cut at his piece of hot steak 
with his case-knife, and said, eating: 

‘*Now then. What’s gone with that boy ?””’ 


** Don’t be angry, dear. It seems, father, that . 


he has-quite a gift of learning.” 


Eat it while - 


i 


**Unnat’ral young beggar!’’ said the parent, . 


shaking his knife in the air. 


‘*And that having this gift, and not being 


equally good at other things, he has made shift 
to get some schooling.” 

‘*Unnat’ral young beggar!” said the parent 
again, with his former action. 

‘*__And that knowing you have nothing to 
spare, father, and not wishing to be a burden on 
you, he gradually made up his mind to go seck 
his fortune out of learning. He went away this 
morning, father, and he cried very much at go- 
ing, and he hoped you would forgive him.” 

‘*Let him never come a nigh me to ask me 


my forgiveness,’ said the father, again empha- 


sizing his words with the knife, ‘* Let him never 
come within sight of my eyes, nor yet within 
reach of my arm. His own father ain’t good 
enough for him. He’s disowned his own father. 
His own father therefore disowns him for ever 
and ever, as a unnat’ra] young beggar,” 


™ He had pushed away his plate. With the nat- 


ural need of a strong rough man in anger, to do 
something forcible, he now clutched his knife 
overhand, and struck downward with it at the 
end of every succeeding sentence. ,As he would 


have struck with his own clenched fist if there © 


had chanced to be nothing in it. 

“He's welcome to go. He's more welcome to 
fo than to stay. But let him never come back. 
Let him never put his head inside that door. 
And let you never speak a word more in his fa- 
vor, or you'll disown your own father, likewise, 


and what your father says of him he’ll have to. 


come to say of you. Now I see why them men 
yonder held aloof from me. ‘They says to one 
another, ‘Here comes the man as ain’t good 
enough for his own son!’ Lizzie—!” 

But she stopped him with a ery. Looking at 
her he saw her, with a face quite strange to him, 
shrinking back against the wall, with her hands 
before her eyes, fear 

** Father, don’t! JTean’t bear to see 
ing with it. Put it down!” 


ts 


you strik- 


oe 
ei. 


£ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


He looked at the knife; but in his astonish- 
ment still held it. 

‘¢Father, it’s too horrible. 
put it down!” 

Confounded by her appearance and exclama- 
tion, he tossed it away, and stood up with his 
open hands held out before him. 

“What's come to you, Liz? Can you think 
I would strike at you with a knife?” 

‘*No, father, no; you would never hurt me.” 

¢¢ What should I hurt ?” 

‘¢ Nothing, dear father. On my knees, I am 
certain, in my heart and soul I am certain, no- 
thing! But it was too dreadful to bear; for it 
looked—” her hands covering her face again, 
**O it looked—” ‘ 

¢¢ What did it look like ?” 

The recollection of his murderous figure, com- 
bining with her trial of last night, and her trial 
of the morning, caused her to drop at his feet; 
without having answered. 

He had never seen her so before. He raised 
her with the utmost tenderness, calling her the 
best of daughters, and ‘‘my poor pretty creetur,”’ 
and laid her head upon his knee, and tried to 
restore her. But failing, he laid her head gen- 
tly down again, got a pillow and placed it un- 
der her dark hair, and sought on the table for a 
spoonful of brandy. There being none left, he 
hurriedly caught up the empty bottle, and ran 
out at the door. 

He returned as hurriedly as he had gone, with 
the bottle still empty. He kneeled down by her, 
took her head on his arm, and moistened her 
lips with a little water into which he dipped his 
fingers: saying, fiercely, as he looked around, 
now over this shoulder, now over that: 


“Have we got a pest in the house? Is there 
summ’at deadly sticking to my clothes? What’s 


let loose upon us? Who loosed it?” 
aca 
CHAPTER VII. 


MR. WEGG LOOKS AFTER HIMSELF. 


Smas Wea«, being on his road to the Roman 
Empire, approaches it by way of Clerkenwell. 
The time is early in the evening; the weather 
moist and raw. Mr. Wegg finds leisure to make 
a little circuit, by reason that he folds his screen 
early, now that he combines another source of 
income with it, and also that he feels it due to 
himself to be anxiously expected at the Bower. 
** Boffin will get all the eagerer for waiting a 
bit,” says Silas, screwing up, as he stumps along, 
first his right eye, and then his left. Which is 
something superfluous in him, for Nature has al- 
ready screwed both pretty tight. 

‘“‘If I get on with him as I expect to get on,” 
Silas pursues, stumping and meditating, ‘it 
wouldn’t become me to leave it here. It 
wouldn’t be respectable.” Animated by this re- 
flection, he stumps faster, and looks a long way 
before him, as a man with an ambitious project 
in abeyance often will do. 

Aware of a working-jeweler popnlation taking 
sanctuary about the church in Clerkenwell, Mr. 
Wegg is conscious of an interest in, and a re- 

pect for, the neighborhood. But his sensations 
Im this regard halt as to their strict morality, as 


47 


lichts of a coat of invisibility in which to walk 


off safely with the precious stones: and watch- 
O put it down, | 


cases, but stop short of any compunction for the 
people who would lose the same. 

Not, however, toward the ‘‘ shops” where cun- 
ning artificers work in pearls and diamonds and 
gold and silver, making their hands so rich, that 
the enriched water in which they wash them is 
bought for the refiners ;—not toward these docs 
Mr. Wegg stump, but toward the poorer shops 
of small retail traders in commodities to eat and 
drink and keep folks warm, and of Italian frame- 
makers, and of barbers, and of brokers, and of 
dealers in dogs and singing-birds. From these, 
in a narrow and a dirty street devoted to such 
callings, Mr. Wegg selects one dark shop-win- 
dow with a tallow-candle dimly burning in it, 
surrounded by a muddle of objects vaguely re- 
sembling pieces of leather and dry stick, but 
among which nothing is resolvable into any thing 
distinct, save the candle itself in its old tin can- 
dlestick, and two preserved frogs fighting a small- 
sword duel. Stumping with fresh vigor, he goes 
in at the dark greasy entry, pushes a little greasy 
dark reluctant side-door, and follows the door 
into the little dark greasy shop. It is so dark 
that nothing can be made out in it, over a little 
counter, but another tallow-candle in another 
old tin candlestick, cluse to the face of a man 
stooping low in a chair. 

Mr. Wegg nods to the face, ‘‘ Good-evening, 

The face looking up is a sallow face with weak 
eyes, surmounted by a tangle of reddish-dusty 
hair. The owner of the face has no cravat on, 
and has opened his tumbled shirt-collar to work 
with the more ease. For the same reason he 
has no coat on: only a loose waistcoat over his 
yellow linen. His eyes are like the over-tried 
eyes of an engraver, but he is not that; his ex- 
pression and stoop are like those of a shoemaker, 
but he is not that. 

**Good-evening, Mr. Venus. 
member ?” 

With slowly dawning remembrance Mr. Ve- 
nus rises, and holds his candle over the little 
counter, and holds it down toward the legs, nat- 
ural and artificial, of Mr. Wegg. 

‘To be sure /” he*says, then. 
do?” 

‘““Wegg, you know,” that gentleman explains. 

‘* Yes, ves,” says the other. ‘* Hospital am- 
putatioy?” 

** Just so,” says Mr. Wegge. 

‘¢Yes, yes,” quoth Venus. ‘*How do you 
do? Sit down by the fire, and warm your— 
your other one.” sh ae 

The little counter being so short a counter 
that it leaves the fire-place, which would have 
been behind it if it had been longer, accessible, 
Mr. Wegg sits down on a box in front of the 
fire, and inhales a warm and comfortable smell 
which is not the smell of the shop. For that,” 
Mr. Wegg inwardly decides, as he takes a cor- 
rective sniff or two, ‘‘is musty, leathery, feath- 
ery, cellary, gluey, gummy, and,” with another 
sniff, ‘‘as it might be, strong of old pairs of 
bellows.” 

‘* My tea is drawing, and my muffin is on the 
hob, Mr. Wegg; will you partake?” 

It being one of Mr. Wegg’s guiding rules in 


9 


Don’t you re- 


‘* How do you 


‘life always to partake, he says he will. But, the 


ne halts in his gait; for, they suggest the de-j little shop is so excessively dark, is stuck so full 


48 


of black shelves and brackets and nooks and 
corners, that he sees Mr. Venus’s cup and sau- 
cer only because it is close under the candle, 
and does not see from what mysterious recess 
Mr. Venus produces another for himself, until 
it is under his nose. Concurrently, Wegg per- 
ceives a pretty little dead bird lying on the count- 
er, with its head drooping on one side against 
the rim of Mr. Venus’s saucer, and a long stiff 
wire piercing its breast. As if it were Cock 
Robin, the hero of the ballad, and Mr. Venus 
were the sparrow with his bow and arrow, and 
Mr. Wegg were the fly with his little eye. 

Mr. Venus dives, and produces another muf- 
fin, yet untoasted; taking the arrow out of the 
breast of Cock Robin, he proceeds to toast it on 
the end of that cruel instrument. When it is 
brown, he dives again and produces butter, with 
which he completes his work, 

Mr. Wegg, as an artful man who is sure of 
his supper by-and-by, presses muftin on his host 
to soothe him into a compliant state of mind, 
or, as one might say, to grease his works. As 
the muffins disappear, little by little, the black 
shelves and nooks and corners begin to appear, 
and Mr. Wegg gradually acquires an imperfect 
notion that over against him on the chimney- 
piece is a Hindoo baby in a bottle, curved up 
with his big head tucked under him, as though 
he would instantly throw a somersault if the 
bottle were large enough. 

When. he deems Mr. Venus’s wheels sufficient- 
ly lubricated, Mr. Wegg approaches his object 
by asking, as he lightly taps his hands together, 
to express an undesigning frame of mind; 

*‘And how have I been going on, this long 
time, Mr. Venus ?” 

“Very bad,” says Mr. Venus, uncompromis- 
ingly. . 

‘“What? Am TI still at home?” asks Wegg, 
with an air of surprise. 

‘* Always at home.” 

This would seem to be secretly agreeable to 
Wegg, but he veils his feelings, and observes, 
‘Strange. To what do you attribute it?” 

“I don’t know,” replies Venus, who is a hag- 
gard melancholy man, speaking in a weak voice 
of querulous complaint, ‘‘te what to attribute 
it, Mr. Wegg. I can’t work you into a miscel- 
Janeous one, nohow. Do what I will, you can’t 
be got to fit. Any body with a passable knowl- 
edge would pick you out at a look, and say,— 
‘No go! - Don’t match!” . 

‘‘Well, but hang it, Mr. Venus,” Wegg ex- 
postulates with some little irritation, “that can’t 
be personal and peculiar in me. It must often 
happen with miscellaneous ones.” 

‘With ribs (I grant you) always. But not 
else, When I prepare a miscellaneous one, I 
know beforehand that I can’t keep to nature, 
and be miscellaneous with ribs, because every 
man has higgown ribs, and no other man’s will 
go With them; but elseways I can be miscella- 
neous, I have just sent home a Beauty—a per- 
fect Beauty—to a school of art. One leg Bel- 
gian, one leg English, and the pickings of eight 
other people in it. Talk of not being qualified 
to be miscellaneous! By rights you ought to be, 
Mr. Wegg.”’ 

Silas looks as hard at his one leg as he ean in 
the dim light, and after a pause sulkily opines 
“that it must be the fault of the other people. 


fut 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. es 


Or how do you mean to say it comes about ?” 
he demands, impatiently. . 

“I don’t know how it comes about. Stand 
up a minute. Hold the light.” Mr. Venus 
takes from a corner by his chair the bones of a 
leg and foot, beautifully pure--and put together 
with exquisite neatness. ‘These he compares 


with Mr. Wegg’s leg; that gentleman looking. 


on, as if he were being measured for a riding- 
boot. ‘No, I don’t know how it is, but so it is. 
You have got a twist in that bone, to the best of 
my belief. J never saw the likes.of you.” 

Mr. Wegg having looked distrustfully at his 
own limb, and suspiciously at the pattern with 
which it has been compared, makes the point: 

‘* Pll bet a pound that ain’t an English one!” 

‘‘An easy wager, when we run so much into 
foreign! No, it belongs to that French gentle- 
man.” 

-As he nods toward a point of darkness be- 
hind Mr. Wegg, the latter, with a slight start, 
looks round for ‘‘that French gentleman,” whom 
he at length descries to be represented (in a very 
workman-like manner) by his ribs only, stand- 
ing on a shelf in another corner, like a piéce of 
armor or a pair of stays. 

‘*Oh!” says Mr. Wegg, with a sort of sense 
of being introduced; ‘‘I dare say you were all 
right enough in your own country, but I hope 
no objections will be taken to my saving that 
the Frenchman was never yet born as I should 
wish to match.” 

At this moment the greasy door is violently, 
pushed inward, and a boy follows it, who says, 
after having let it slam: 

‘‘Come for the stuffed canary.” 

**It’s three-and-ninepence,” returns Venus; 
‘have you got the money ?” 

The boy produces four shillings, Mr. Venus, 
always in exceedingly low spirits and making 
whimpering sounds, peers about for the stuffed 
canary. 
search, Mr. Wegg observes that he has a con- 
venient little shelf near his knees, exclusively 
appropriated to skeleton hands, which have very 
much the appearance of wanting to lay hold of 
him, From these Mr. Venus rescues the canary 
in a glass case, and shows it to the boy. 

‘There!’ he whimpers. ‘‘There’s anima- 
tion! On a twig, making up his mind to hop! 
Take care of him; he’s a lovely specimen.— 
And three-is four.” 

The boy gathers up his change, and has pulled 
the door open by a leather strap nailed to it for 
the purpose, when Venus crics out: 

**Stop him! Come back, you young villain! 
You've got a tooth among them half-pence.” 

‘‘ How was I to know I’d got it? Yon giv it 
me. I don’t want none of your teeth; I’ve got 
enough of my own.” 
selects it from his change, and throws it on 
counter. 

‘Don’t sauce me, in the wicions pride of your 
youth,” Mr. Venus retorts,pathetically, “‘* Don’t 
hit me because you see I’m down. I’mlow enough 
without that. It dropped into the till, I suppose. 
They drop into every thing. There was two in 
the coffee-pot at breakfast-time. Molars.” 

‘Very well, then,” argues the boy, ‘what. 
do you call names for ?” 


the 


To which Mr. Venus only replies, shaking his 
shock of dusty hair, and winking his weak eyes, ~ 


On his taking the candle to assist-his 


So the boy pipes, as he ° 


oe ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


LUG: se i 
EAI 


—— 


= \ WH I 

ae . Me: 
Se SSX WRN 
ee Se 


“LYV SIH JO SAIHdOUL AHL AGT GUGNNOUNNS saNaAA “yu 


‘Don’t sauce me, in the wicious pride of your 
youth; don’t hit me, because you see I’m down. 
You’ve no idea how small you’d come out, if I 
had the articulating of you.” 

This consideration seems to have its effect on 
the boy, for he goes out grumbling. 

**Oh dear me, dear me!” sighs Mr. Venus, 
heavily, snuffing the candle, ‘‘the world that 
appeared so flowery-has ceased to blow! 
easting your eye round the shop, Mr. Wegg. Let 
me show you a light. My working-bench. My 
young man’s bench. A Wice. ‘Tools. Bones, 
warious. Skulls; warious. Preserved Indian 
baby. African ditto. Bottled preparations, 
warious, Every thing within reach of your 
hand, in good preservation. The mouldy ones 


Yourre | 


ey. ® 
49 


IS 


tl 
iN 
SS 


a SS = 


N 


= 


atop. What’s in those hampers over them again, 
I don’t quite remember. Say, human warious. 
Cats. Articulated English baby. Dogs. Ducks. 
Glass eyes, warious. Mummied bird. Dried cu- 
ticle, warious. .Oh, dear me! Tha the gen- 
eral panoramic view.” : 

Having so held and waved the candle as that 
all these heterogeneous objects seemed to come 
forward obediently when they were named, and 
then retire again, Mr. Venus despondently re- 
peats, ‘‘ Oh dear me, dear me!” resumes his seat, 
and with drooping despondency upon him, falls 
to pouring himself out more tea. 

‘Where am 1?” asks Mr. Wegg. 

_**You’re somewhere in the back shop across 
theyard, Sir; and speaking quite candidly, I 


r 
& 


50 


wish I'd never bought you of the Hospital Por- 
ter.” 2 
‘¢ Now, look here; what did you give for me?” 

‘¢ Well,” replies Venus, blowing his tea: his 
head and face peering out of the darkness, over 
the smoke of it, as if he were modernizing the 
old original rise in his family: ‘‘ you were one 
of a warious lot, and I don’t know.” 

Silas puts his point in the improved form of 
‘What will you take for me?” 

“Well,” replies Venus, still blowing his tea, 
‘‘I’m not prepared, at a moment’s notice, to tell 
you, Mr. Wegg.” 

‘¢Come! According to your own account 
I’m not worth much,” Wegg reasons persua- 
sively. 

‘<Not for miscellaneous working in, I grant 
you, Mr. Wegg; but you might turn out valua- 
ble yet, as a—’” here Mr. Venus takes a gulp of 
tea, so hot that it makes him choke, and sets 
his weak eyes watering; ‘‘as a Monstrosity, if 
you'll excuse me.” 

Repressing an indignant look, indicative of 
any thing but a disposition to excuse him, Silas 
pursues his point. 

‘‘T think you know me, Mr. Venus, and I 
think you know I never bargain.” 

Mr. Venus takes gulps of hot tea, shutting his 
eyes at every gulp, and opening them again in 
a spasmodic manner; but dees not commit him- 
self to assent. 

“‘T have a prospect of getting on in life and 
elevating myself by my own independent exer- 
tions,” says Wegg, feelingly, ‘“‘and I shouldn't 
like—I tell you openly I should not like—under 
euch circumstances, to be what I may call dis- 
persed, a part of me here, and a part of me there, 
but should wish to collect myself like a gentle 
person,” 

‘<Tt’s a prospect at present, is it, Mr. Wegg? 
Then you haven’t got the money for a deal about 
you? Then I'll tell you what I'll do with you; 
T'll hold you over. I am a man of my word, 
and you needn’t be afraid of my disposing of 
you. Illhold you over. That’s a promise. Oh 
dear me, dear me!” 

Fain to accept his promise, and wishing to 
propitiate him, Mr. Wegg looks on as he sighs 
“and pours himself out more tea, and then says, 

trying to get a sympathetic tone into his voice : 

‘You seem very low, Mr. Venus. Is busi- 
ness bad ?” 

‘‘ Never was so good.” 

“Ts your hand out at all?” 

‘Never was so well in. Mr. Wegg, I’m not 
only first in the trade, but I’m the trade. You 
may go and buy a skeleton at the West End if 
you like, and pay the West End price, but. it'll 
be my putting together. Dve as much to do as 
I can possibly do, with the assistance of my 

young mgg, and I take a pride and a pleasure 
in it.” 

Mr. Venus thus delivers himself, his right 
hand extended, his smoking saucer in his left 
hand, protesting as though he were going to 
burst into a flood of tears. 

“That ain’t a state of things to make you 
low, Mr. Venus.” 

‘¢Mr. Wegg, I know it ain’t. Mr. Wegg, not 
to name myself as a workman without an equal, 
I've gone on improving myself in my knowledge 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


perfect, Mr.Wegg, if yon was brought here 
loose ina-bag-to-be articulated, Td ame your 
smallest bones blindfold equally with yout larg- 
est, as fast as T could pick ‘em out, and Vd sort 
’em all, and sort your wertebra, in a manner 
that would equally surprise and charm you.” 

‘Well,’ remarks Silas (though not quite so 
readily as last time), ‘‘ that ain’t a state of things 
to be low about.—-Not for you to be low about, 
least ways.” 

‘*Mr. Wegg, I know it ain’t; Mr. Wegg, I 
know it ain’t. But it’s the heart that lowers 
me, it is the heart! Be so good as take and 
read that card out loud.”’ . 

Silas receives one from his hand, which Venus 
takes from a wonderful litter in a drawert, and, 
putting on his spectacles, reads: 

aoe Vir V eras, °” 


 *).¥ ee.) Go or,” 
‘¢¢ Preserver of Animals and Birds,’” 
MY 6a. : Go'on. 


‘¢¢ Articulator of human bones.’ ” 


‘That's it,” witha groan. ‘*That’s it! Mr. 
Wegg, I'm thirty-two, and a bachelor. Mr. 


Wegg, I love her. Mr. Wegg, she is worthy 
of being loved by a Potentate!” Here Silas is 
rather alarmed by Mr. Venus’s springing to his 
feet in the hurry of his spirits, and haggardly 
confronting him with his hand on his coat cel- 
lar; but Mr. Venus, begging pardon, sits down 
again, saving, with the calmness of despair, 
‘¢ She objects to the business.” 

‘Does she know'the profits of it ?” 

‘¢She knows the profits of it, but she don’t 
appreciate the art of it, and she objects to it. 
‘J do not wish,’ she writes in her own hand- 
writing, ‘to regard myself, nor yet to be regard- 
ed, in that boney light.’” 

Mr. Venus pours himself ont more tea, with a 
look and in an attitude of the deepest desola- 
tion. 

‘¢ And so a man climbs to the top of the tree, 
Mr. Wegg, only to see that there’s no look-out 
when he’s up there! I sit here of a night sur- 
rounded by the lovely trophies of my art, and 
what have they done for me? Ruined me. 
Brought me to the pass of being informed that 
‘she does not wish to regard herself, nor yet to 
be regarded, in that boney light!?” Having 
repeated the fatal expressions, Mr, Venus drinks 
more tea by gulps, and offers an explanation of 
his doing so. 

“It lowers me. When I’m equally lowered 
all over, lethargy sets in. By sticking to it till 
one or tio in the morning, I get oblivion. Don't 
let me detain you, Mr. Wegg. I’m not com- 
pany for any one.” 


‘¢Ttis not on that account,” says Silas, rising, 


“but because Pve got an appointment. 
time I was at Harmon’s.” 

“Eh?” said Mr. Venus. 
Battle Bridge way ?” 

Mr. Wegg admits that he is bound for that — 
port. 

“You ought to be in a good thing, if vou’ve 
worked yourself in there. There’s lots of money. 
going, there.” 

‘*To think,” says 
catch it up so quick, and know about it. 
derful!” 


It’s 


‘‘Harmon’s, up 


‘Not at all, Mr.Wegg. The old gentleman _ 
of Anatomy, till both by sight and by name I’m | wanted to know the nature and worth of every _ 


rs 


4 


oh 


Silas, ‘‘that you should. 
Won- 


ae 


; 
on 
4 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


51 


thing that was found in the dust; and many’s; great confusion, by falling a victim to the fury 


the bone, and feather, and what not, that he’s 
brought to me.” 

‘Really, now!” 

“Yes. (Oh dear me, dear me!) And he’s 
buried quite in this neighborhood, you know. 
Over yonder.” 

Mr. Wegg does not know, but he makes as if 
he did. by responsively nodding his head. He 
also follows with his eyes .the toss of Venus's 
head: as if to seek a direction to over yonder 
_ *T took an interest in_that discovery in the 
river,” says Venus. ‘*(She hadn’t written her 
cutting refusal at that time.) I've got up there 
never mind, though.” 

He had raised the candle at arm’s-length to- 
ward one of the dark shelves, and Mr. Wegg 
had turned to l6ok, when he broke off. 

“The old gentleman was well known all round 
here. There used to be stories about his hav- 
ing hidden all kinds of property in those dust 
mounds. I suppose there was nothing in ’em. 
_ Probably you know, Mr. Wegg ?” 

* Nothing in ’em,” says Wegg, who has never 
heard a word of this before. © 

** Don’t let me detain you. Good-night!” 

The unfortunate Mr. Venus gives him a shake 
of the hand with a shake of his own head, and 
drooping down in his chair, proceeds to pour 
himself out more tea. Mr. Wegg, looking back 
over his shoulder as he pulls the door open by 
the strap,.notices that the movement so shakes 
the crazy shop, and so shakes a momentary flare 
out of the candle, as that the babies—H indoo, 
African, and British—the ‘‘human warious,” 
the French gentleman, the green glass-eyed cats, 
the dogs, the ducks, and all the rest of the col- 
lection, show for an instant as if paralytically 
animated; while even poor little Cock Robin at 
Mr. Venus’s elbow turns over on his innocent 
side. Next moment Mr. Wegg is stumping un- 
der the gaslights and through the mud. 


pote tke a 


CHAPTER VIII. 
MR. BOFFIN IN CONSULTATION, 


Wuosoever had gone out of Fleet Street into 
the Temple at the date of this history, and had 
wandered disconsolate about the Temple until 
he stumbled on a dismal church-yard, and had 
looked up at the dismal windows commanding 
that church-yard until at the most dismal win- 
dow of them all he saw a dismal boy, would in 
him have beheld, at one grand comprehensive 
swoop of the eye, the managing clerk, junior 
clerk, common-law clerk, conveyancing clerk, 
chancery clerk, every refinement and depart- 
ment of clerk, of Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, ere- 
while called in the newspapers eminent solic- 
itor. 

Mr Boffin having been several times in com- 
munication with this clerkly essence, both on 
its own ground and at the Bower, had no diffi- 
culty in identifying it when he saw it up in its 
dusty eyrie. ‘To the second floor on which the 
window was situated, he ascended, much pre- 
occupied in mind by the uncertainties besetting 
the Roman Empire, and much regretting the 
death of the amiable Pertinax: who only last 
‘Tight had left the imperial affairs in’a state of 
her Ses een }.7> + ik if i 


of the pretorian guards. 

** Morning, morning, morning!” said My, Bok 
fin, with a wave of his hand, as the office-duvr 
was opened by the dismak boy, whose appropri- 
ate name was Blight. ‘* Governor in ?” 

‘*Mr. Lightwood gave you an appointment, 
Sir, I think ?” 

‘*f don’t want him to give it, you know,” re- 
turned Mr. Boffin; ‘Tl pay my way, my boy.” 

‘No doubt, Sir. Would you walk in? Mr. 
Lightwood ain’t in at the present moment, but 
I expect him back very shortly. Would you 
take a seat in Mr. Lightwood’s room, Sir, while 
[ look over our Appointment Book?” Young 
Blight made a great show of fetching from his 
desk a Jong thin manuscript volume with a brown 
paper cover, and running his finger down the 
day’s appointments, murmuring, ‘* Mr. Aggs, 
Mr. Baggs, Mr. Caggs, Mr. Daggs, Mr. F ages, 
Mr. Gaggs, Mr. Boffin. Yes, Sir; quite right. 
You are a little before your time, Sir. Mr. Light- 
wood will be in directly.” 

‘<T'm not in a hurry,” said Mr. Boffin. 

“Thank you, Sir. ll take the opportunity, 
if you please, of entering your name in our Call 
ers’ Book for the day.” Young Blight made an- 
other great show of changing the volume, taking 
up a pen, sucking it, dipping it, and running over 
previous entries before he wrote. As, “Mr. Al- 
ley, Mr. Balley, Mr. Calley, Mr. Dalley, Mr. Fal- 
ley, Mr. Galley, Mr. Halley, Mr. Lalley, Mr. 
Malley. And Mr. Boffin.” 

‘* Strict system here; eh, my lad ?” said Mr. 


- Boffin, as he was booked. 


‘Yes, Sir,” returned the boy. ‘‘I couldn’t get . 
on without it.” 

By which he probably meant that his mind 
would have been shattered to pieces without 
this fiction of an occupation. Wearing in his 
solitary confinement no fetters that he could. 
polish, and being provided with no drinking 
cup that he could carve, he had fallen on the 
device of ringing alphabetical changes into the 
two volumes in question, or of entering vast 
numbers of persons out of the Directory as trans- 
acting business with Mr. Lightwood. It was the 
more necessary for his spirits, because, being of 
a sensitive temperament, he was apt to consider 
it personally disgraceful to himself that his mas. 
ter had no clients. 

‘“fow long have you been in the law, now ?” 
asked Mr. Boffin, with a pounce, in his usual 
inquisitive way. 

‘‘Pve been in the law, now, Sir, about three 
years.” 

‘“‘ Must have been as good as born in it!” said 
Mr. Boffin, with admiration. ‘* Do you like it ?” 

*‘f don’t mind it much,” returned Young 
Blight, heaving a sigh, as if its bitterness were 
past. 

‘* What wages do you get ?”: % 

*‘Half what I could wish,” replied young 
Blight. ite 
**What’s the whole that yon could wish ?” 

‘* Fifteen shillings a week,” said the boy. 

**About how long might it take you now, at 
a average rate of going, to be a Judge?” asked 
Mr. Boffin, after surveying his small stature in 
silence 

The boy answered that he had not yet quite 
worked out that little calculation. 


52 


‘‘T suppose there’s nothing to prevent your 
going in for it?” said Mr. Boftin. 

The boy virtually replied that as he had the 
honor to be a Briton who never never never, 
there was nothing to prevent ‘his going in for it. 


Yet he seemed inclined to suspect that there 


might be something to prevent his coming out 
with it. 

‘‘Would a couple of pound help.you up at 
all?” asked Mr. Boffin. 

On this head young Blight had no doubt 
whatever, so Mr. Boftin made him a present of 
that sum of money, and thanked him for his at- 
tention to his (Mr. Boffin’s) affairs; which, he 
added, were now, he believed, as good as settled. 

Then Mr. Boffin, with his stick at his-ear, 
like a Familiar Spirit explaining the office to 
him, sat staring at a little book-case of Law 
Practice and Law Reports, and at a window, 
and at an empty blue bag, and at a stick of seal- 
ing-wax, and a pen, and a box of wafers, arid an 
apple, and a writing-pad—ali very dusty—and 
at a number of inky smears and blots, and at 
an imperfectly - disguised gun-case pretending 
to be something legal, and-at an iron box la- 
beled Harmon Esrare, until Mr. Lightwood ap- 
peared. 

Mr. Lightwood explained that he came from 


the proctor’s, with whom he had been engaged | 


in transacting Mr. Boffin’s affairs. 

‘¢And they seem to have taken a deal out of 
you!” said Mr. Boffin, with commiseration. 

Mr. Lightwood, without explaining that his 
weariness was chronic, proceeded with his expo- 
sition that, all forms of law having been at length 
complied with, will of Harmon deceased having 
been proved, death of. Harmon next inheriting 
having been proved, etc. and so forth, Court of 
Chancery having been moved, ete. and so forth, he, 
Mr. Lightwood, had now the great gratification, 
honor, and happiness, again etc. and so forth, 
of congratulating Mr. Boffin on coming into 
possession, as residuary legatee, of upward of 
one hundred thousand pounds, standing in the 
books of the Governor.and Company of the Bank 
of England, again etc. and so forth. 

‘¢ And what is particularly eligible in the prop- 
erty, Mr. Boffin, is, that it involves no trouble. 
There are no estates to manage, no rents to re- 
turn so much per cent. upon in bad times (which 
is an extremely dear way of getting your name 
into the newspapers), no voters. to become par- 
boiled in hot water with, no agents to take the 
cream off the milk before it comes to table. You 
could put the whole in a cash-box to-morrow 
morning, and take it with you to—say, to the 
Rocky Mountains. Inasmuch as every man,” 
concluded Mr. Lightwood, with an indolent 
smile, ‘‘ appears to be under a fatal spell which 
obliges him, sooner or later, to mention the 
Rocky Mountains im a tone of extreme famil- 
larity togsome other man, I hope you’ll excuse 
my pressing you into the service of that gigantic 
range of geographical bores.” 

Without following this last. remark very close- 
ly, Mr. Boffin cast his perplexed gaze first at 
the ceiling, and then at the carpet. 

‘¢ Well,” he remarked, ‘‘I don’t know what. 
to say about it, I am sure. Iwas a’most as well 
asI was. It’s a great lot to take care of.” 


‘My dear Mr. Boffin, then don't take care of | presence, he was a flinty-hearted rascal. % 


it}? 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘*ih ?” said that gentleman. 

‘¢ Speaking now,” returned Mortimer, ‘owith a 
the irresponsible imbecility of a private indi — 
vidual, and not with the profundity of a ororenr 
sional adviser, I should_say that if the cireum- 
stance of its being too much weighs upon your 
mind, you have the haven of consolation open » 
to you that you can easily make itless.. And if 
you showld be apprehensive of the trouble of do- — 


ing so, there is the further haven of consolation — 


that any number of people will take the trouble 
off your hands.’ 

“Wl! I don’t quite see it,” retorted Mr. 
Boffin, still perplexed., “That's not satisfac 
tory, you know, what .you’re a-saying.’ 

“Ts Any thing satisfactory, Mr. Boflin ?” asked — 
Mortimer, raising his eyebrows. - 

“T used to find it so,” answered Mr. Boffin, 
with a wistful look. . ‘ "While I was foreman at 
the Bower—afore it was the Bower—lI consid- © 
eréd the business very satisfactory. The old 
man was a awful Tartar (saying it, ’m sure, | 
without disrespect to his memory) but the busi-— 
ness was a pleasant one to look after, from be-_ 
fore daylight to past dark. It’s a’most a pity,” 
said Mr. Boffin, rubbing his ear, ‘‘ that he ever 
went and made so much money. It would have 
been better for him if he hadn’t so given him- 
self up toit. You may depend upon it,” making 
the discovery all of a sudden, ‘‘that he found’ 
it a great lot to take care of !” | 

Mr. Lightwood coughed, not convinced. 

‘* And speaking of satisfactory,” pursued Mr, 
Boffin, ‘‘ why, Lord save us! when we come to 
take it to pieces, bit by bit, where’s the satis- . 
factoriness of the money as yet?. When the old 
man does right the poor boy after all, the poor 
boy gets no good of it. He gets made away gvith, © 
at the moment when he’s lifting (as one may say) 
the cup and sarser to his lips. Mr. Lightwood, 
I will now name to you, that on behalf of the 
poor dear boy, me and Mrs. Boffin have stood 
out against the7old man times out of number, 
till he has called us every name he could lay his © 
tongue to. I have seen him, after Mrs. Boffin 
has given him her mind respecting the claims 
of the nat’ral affections, catch off Mrs. Boffin’s 
bonnet (she wore, in general, a black straw, 
perched as a matter of convenience on the top — 
of her head), and send it spinning across the7 
yard. Ihave indeed. And once, when he did — 
this in a manner that amounted to personal, I 
should have given him a rattler for himself, if — 
Mrs. Boffin hadn’t thrown. herself betwixt us, 
and received flush on the temple. Which dr opped — 
her, Mr. Lightwood. Dropped her.” 

Mr. Lightwood murmured ‘‘ Equal honor— 
Mrs. Boffin’s head and heart.” 

“You understand; I name this,” pursued Mr. — 
Boffin, ‘‘to show you, now the affairs are wound — 
up, that me and Mrs. Boffin have ever stood, as — 
we were in Christian honor bound, the. chil | 
dren’s friend. Me and Mrs. Boffin stood the poor 
girl’s friend ; me and Mrs, Boftin stood the poor — 
boy’s fr iend ; me and Mrs. Boffin up and faced — 
the old-man when we momently expected. to be | 
turned out for our pains. As to Mrs. Boffin,” $ 
said Mr. Boffin, lowering his voice, (che | 
mightn’t wish it mentioned now she’s Fashiousl 
able, but she went so far as to tell him, in my 


_ Mr. Lightwood murmured ‘ Vigorous Saxon 


x 


: OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


spirit—Mrs. Boffin’ $ hola ty NA Ol uate eee 
court and Cressy.” 
‘*The last time me and Mrs. Boftin saw the 
_ poor boy,” said Mr. Boffin, warming (as fat 
usually does) with a tendency to melt, ‘‘ he was 
a child of seven year old. For when he come 
back to make intercession for his sister, me and 
Mrs. Boffin were away overlooking a country 
contract which was to be sifted before carted, 
and he was come and gone in a single hour. I 
say he was a child of seyen year old. He was 
going, away, all alone and forlorn, to’ that for- 
eign school, and he come into our place, situate 
up the yard of the present Bower, to have a warm 
at our fire. There was his little scanty travel- 
ing clothes upon him. There was his little scanty 
box outside in the shivering wind, which I was 
going to carry for him down to the steamboat, 
as the old man wouldn’t hear of allowing a six- 
pence coach-money. Mrs. Boffin, then quite a 
young woman and a pictur of a full-blown rose, 
stands him by her, kneels down at the fire, warms 
her two’ open hands, and falls to rubbing his 
cheeks; but seeing the tears come into the 
child’s eyes, the tears come fast into her own, 
and she holds him round the neck, like as if she 
Was protecting him, and cries to me, ‘I’d give 
the wide wide world, I would, to run away with 
him!’ I don’t say but what it cut me, and but 
what it at the same time heightened my feel- 
ings of admiration for Mrs. Boffin. The poor 
child clings to her for a while, as she clings to 
him, and then, when the old man calls, he says 
‘I must. go! God bless you!’ and fora mo- 
ment rests his heart against her bosom, and 
looks up at both of us, as if it was in pain—in 
agony. Such alook! I went aboard with him 
CI gave him first what little treat I thought he’d 
_ like), and I left him when he had fallen asleep 
in his berth, and I came back to Mrs. Boffin. 
But tell her what I would of how I had left, him, 
it all went for nothing, for, according to her 
thoughts, he never changed that look that he 
had looked up at us two. But it did one piece 
of good. Mrs. Boffin and me had no child of 
our own, and had sometimes wished that how we 
had one. But not now. ‘We might both of us 
die,’ says Mrs. Boffin, ‘and other eyes might see 
that lonelyook in our child.’ So of a night, 
when it was very cold, or when the wind roared, 
or the rain dripped heavy, she would wake sob- 
- bing, and call out in a fluster, ‘Don’t you see 
the poor child’s face? O shelter the poor child!’ 
_—till in course of years it gently wore out, as 
Many things do.” 
**My dear Mr. Boffin, every thing wears to 
rags,” said Mortimer, with a light laugh. 
«y won't go so far as to say every thing,” re- 
turned. Mr. Boffin, on whom his manner seemed 
>to grate, “because there’s some things that I 
never found among the dust. Well, Sir. So 
Mrs. Boffin and me grow older and older in the 
old man’s. service, living and working pretty 
* hard in it, till the old man is discovered dead j in 
his bed. Then Mrs. Botfin and me seal up his 
box, always standing on the table at the side of 
his bed, and having frequently heerd tell of the 
Temple as a spot where lawyers’ dust is contract- 
ed for, I come down here in search of a lawyer 
to advise, and I see your young man up at this 
" ~—present elevation, chopping at the flies on the 


3 


53 


Hoy! not then having the pleasure of your ac- 
quaintance, and by that means come to gain the 
honor. ‘Phen you, and the gentleman in the un- 
comfortable neckcloth under the little archway 
in Saint Paul’s Church-yard—” 

‘< Doctors’ Commons,” observed Lightwood. 

‘*f understood it was ancther name,” said 
My. Boffin, pausing, ‘‘ but you know best. Then 
you and Doctor Scommons, you go to work, and 
you do the thing that’s proper, and you and Joc- 
tor S. take steps for finding out the poor boy, 
and at last you do find out the poor boy, and me 
and Mrs. Boffin often exchange the observation, 
‘We shall see him again, under happy circum- 
stances.’ But it was never to be; and the want 
of satisfactoriness is, that after all the money 
never gets to him.” . 

‘¢ But it gets,” remarked Lightwood, with a 
languid inclination of the head, ‘‘into excellent 
hands.” 

‘*It gets into the hands of me and Mrs. Boffin 
only this very day and hour, and that’s what I - 
am working round to, having waited for this 
day and hour a’ purpose. Mr. Lightwood, here 
has been a wicked cruel murder. By that mur- 
der me and Mrs. Boffin mysteriously profit. For 
the apprehension and conviction of the murder- 
er, we offer a reward of one tithe of the property 
—a reward of Ten Thousand Pound.” 

‘Mr. Boffin, it’s too much.” 

‘¢Mr. Lightwood, me and Mrs. Boffin have 
fixed the sum together, and we stand to it.” 

‘‘But let me represent to you,’ returned 
Lightwood, ‘speaking now with professional 
profundity, and not with individual imbecility, 
that the offer of such an immense reward is a 
temptation to forced suspicion, forced construe- 
tion of circumstances, strained accusation, a 
whole tool-box of edged tools.’ 

** Well,” said Mr. Boffin, a little staggered, 
‘that’s the sum we put o’ one side for the pur- 
pose. Whether it shall be openly declared in 
the new notices that must now be put about in 


our names—” 


‘‘In your name, Mr. Boffin; in your name.” 

‘* Very well; in my name, which is the same 
as Mrs. Boffin’s, and means both of us, is to be 
considered in drawing ’em up. But this is the 
first instruction that I, as the owner of the prop- 
erty, give to my lawyer on coming into it.” 

‘*Your lawyer, Mr. Boffin,” returned Light- 
wood, making a very short note of it with a very 
rusty pen, ‘‘has the gratification of taking the 
instruction. ‘here is another ?” 

‘*’ There is just one other, and no more. Make 
me as compact a little will as can be recoficiled 
with tightness, leaving the whole of the property 
to ‘my beloved wife, Henerietty Boffin, sole ex- 
ecutrix.’. Make it as short as you can, using 
those words; but make it tight.” 

At some loss to fathom Mr. Boffin’s notions 
of a tight will, Lightwood felt his way. 

‘¢T beg your pardon, but professional profun- 
dity must be exact. When you say tight—” 

‘‘T mean tight,” Mr. Boffin explained. 

“Exactly so. And nothing can be more 
laudable.. But is the tightness to bind Mrs. 
Boffin to any and what conditions ?” 

‘Bind Mrs. Boffin ?” interposed her husband. 
‘*No! What are you thinking of! What I 
want is, to make it all hers so tight as that her 


’ window-sill with his penknife, and I give him a | hold of it can’t be loosed.” 


ye 


ee 


theo 


*‘Hers freely, to do what she likes with? | 
Hers absolutely ?” 


“ Absolutely ?” repeated Mr. Boffin, with a| 


whort sturdy laugh. ‘*Hah! I should think 
so! It would be handsome in me to begin to 
bind Mrs. Boffin at this time of day!” 

So that instruction, too, was taken by Mr. 
Lightwood; and Mr. Lightwood, having taken 
it, was in the act of showing Mr. Boftin out, 
when Mr. Eugene Wrayburn almost jostled him 
in the doorway. Consequently Mr. Lightwood 
said, in his cool manner, ‘‘ Let me make you 
two known to one another,” and further signi- 
fied that Mr. Wrayburn was counsel learned in 
the law, and that, partly in the way of business 
and partly in the way of pleasure, he had im- 
parted to Mr, Wrayburn some of the interesting 
facts of Mr. Boffin’s biography. 

‘* Delighted,” suid Eugene—though he didn’t 
look so—‘‘ to know Mr. Boffin.” 

‘“Thankee, Sir, thankee,” returned that gen- 
tleman. ‘And how do you like the law ?” 

** A—not particularly,” returned Eugene. 

“Too dry for you, eh? Well, I suppose it 
wants some years of sticking to, before you mas- 
ter it. But there’s nothing like work. Look at 
the bees.” 

‘| beg your pardon,” returned Eugene, with 
a reluctant smile, ‘‘ but will you excuse my men- 
tioning that I always protest against being re- 
ferred to the bees?” 

**Do you!” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘*{ object on principle,” said Eugene, ‘‘as a 
biped—” 

‘‘As'a what?” asked Mr. Boffin. 

*‘As a two-footed creature ;—I object on prin- 
ciple, as a two-footed creature, to being con- 
stantly referred to insects and four-footed creat- 
ures. I object to being required to model my 
proceedings according to the proceedings of the 
bee, or the dog, or ‘the spider, or the camel. I 
fully admit that the camel, for instance, is’ an 
excessively temperate person; but he has several 


respect for you.” 


stomachs to entertain himself with, and I have 
only one. Besides, I am not fitted up with a 
convenient cool cellar to keep my drink in.” 

‘But I said, you know,” urged Mr. Boffin, 
rather at a loss for an answer, ‘‘the bee.” 

** Exactly, And may I represent to you that 
it’s injudicious to say the bee? For the whole 
case is assumed. Conceding for a moment that 
there is any analogy between a bee and a man 
in a shirt and pantaloons (which I deny), and 
that it is settled that the man is to learn from 
the bee (which I also deny), the question still re- 
mains, What is he to learn? ‘lo imitate? Or 
to avoid? When your friends the bees worry 
themselves to that highly fluttered extent about 
their sovereign, and become perfectly distracted 
touching the slightest monarchical movement, 
are we men to learn the greatness of Tuft-huut- 
ing, or the littleness of the Court Circular? I 
am not clear, Mr. Boffin, but that the hive may 
be satirical.” 

‘** At all events, they work,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘*Ye-es,” returned Eugene, disparagingly, 
“they work; but don’t you think they overdo 
it? They work so much more than they need— 
they make so much more than they can eat— 
they are so incessantly boring and buzzing at 
their one idea till Death comes npon them—that 
don’t you think they overdo it? And are hu- 


# 


a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


man laborers to have no holidays because of 


: 
ee 


the bees? And am I never to have change of — 


air because the bees don’t ? 
honey excellent at breakfast; but, regarded in 
the light of my conventional schoolmaster and 


moralist, I protest against the tyrannical hum- 


bug of your friend the bee. With the highest. 

‘*’Thankee,” said Mr. Boffin. 
morning !’ : 

But the worthy Mr. Boffin jogged away with 
a coufortless impression he could have dispensed 
with, that there was a deal of unsatisfactoriness 
in the world, besides what he had recalled as. 
appertaining to the Harmon property. And he 
was still jogging along Fleet Street in this con- 
dition of mind, when he became aware that he 
was closely tracked and observed by a man of 
genteel appearance. 

‘‘ Now then,” said Mr. Boffin, stopping short,. 
with his meditations brought to an abrupt check, 
‘*what’s the next article?” 2 

‘*T beg your pardon, Mr. Boffin.” — 

‘‘My name too, eh? How did you-come by. 
it? I don’t know you.” 4% 

‘* No, Sir, you don’t know me.” 

Mr. Boftin looked full at the man, and the 
man looked full at him. ‘‘No,” said Mr. Bof-: 
fin, after a glance at the pavement, as if it were 
made of faces and he were trying to match the: 
man’s, **I don’t know you.” 

‘*T am nobody,” said the stranger, ‘‘and net 
likely to be known; but Mr. Botlin’s wealth—” 

‘*Oh! that’s got about already, has it?” mut- 
tered Mr. Boftin. 

‘‘—And his romantic manner of acquiring it 
make him conspicuous. You were pointed out 
to me the other day.” 

‘* Well,”*said Mr. Boffin, ‘I should say I was 
a disappintment to you when I was pinted out, 
if your politeness would allow you to confess it, 
for | am well aware I am not much to look at. 
What might you want with me? Not in the 
law, are you?” 

UNG nih. 

‘‘ No information to give, for a reward ?” 

e Nos Sire 

There may have been a momentary mantlM{g 
in the face of the man as he made the last-an-- 
swer, but it passed directly. 

“If I don’t mistake, you have followed me 
from my lawyer’s and tried to fix my attention, 
Say out! Have you? Or haven’t you?” de-. 
manded Mr, Boffin, rather angry. 

Xe 

‘Why have you?” 

If you will allow me to walk beside you, Mr. 
Boffin, I will tell you. Would you object to turn 
aside into this place—I think it is called Clif. 
ford’s Inn—where we can hear one another bet- 
ter than in the roaring street ?” 

(‘‘ Now,” thought Mr. Boffin, ‘‘if he proposes 
a game at skittles, or meets a country gentle- 
man just come into property, or produces any 
article of jewelry he has found, Pll knock him 
down !”’ 


He Morning, 


Mr. Boffin, I think — 


With this discreet reflection, and car-_ 


rying his stick in his arms much as Punch ecar- | 


ries his, Mr. Boflin turned into Clifford’s Inn 


aforesaid.) 
‘Mr. Boffin, I happened to be in Chancery 

Lane this morning, when I saw you going along 

before me. I took the liberty of following you, . 


a 
aa 


"ti 


ie : 


trying to make up my mind to speak to you, till 
you went into your lawyer's. Then I waited 


outside till you came out.” 


(‘Don’t quite sound like: skittles, nor yet 
country gentleman, nor yet jewelry,” thought 
Mr. Boffin, ‘* but there’s no knowing.”) 

**T am afraid my object is a bold one, I am 
afraid it has little of the usual practical world 
about it, but I venture it. If you ask me, or if 
you ask yourself—which is more likely—what 
emboldens me, I answer, I have been strongly 


assured that you are a man of rectitude and plain 


dealing, with the soundest of sound’hearts, and 
that you are blessed in a wife distinguished by 
the same qualities.” _ 

** Your information is true of Mrs. Boffin, any- 
how,” was Mr. Boftin’s answer, as he surveyed 
his new friend again. 
pressed in the strange man’s manner, and he 
walked with his eyes on the ground-—though 
conscious, for all that, of Mr. Boffin’s observa- 
tion—and he spoke in a subdued voice. But his 
words came easily, and his voice was agreeable 


in tone, albeit constrained. * 


“When I add, I can discern for mysclf what 
the general tongue says of you—that you are 
quite unspoiled by Fortune, and not uplifted—I 
trust you will not, as a man of an open nature, 
suspect that I mean to flatter you, but will be- 
lieve that all I mean is to excuse myself, these 


_ being my only excuses for my present intru- 


sion.” 

(‘*How much?” thought Mr. Boftin. 
must be coming to money. How much ?”) 

“You will probably change your manner of 
living, Mr. Boffin, in your changed circum- 
stances. You will probably keep a larger 
house, have many matters to arrange, and be 
beset by numbers of correspondents. If you 
would try me as your Seeretary—” 

‘As what?” cried Mr. Boflin, with his eyes 
Wide open. 

** Your-Seerctary<2- 

“Well,” said Mr. Boffin, under his breath, 


‘Tt 


“that’s a queer thing!” 


“QO,” pursued the stranger, wondering at Mr. 
Bffin’s wonder, ‘‘if you would try me as your 
Man of business under any name, I know you 
would find me faithful and grateful, and I hope 
you would find me useful. You may naturally 
think that my immediate object is money. Not 
so, for I would willingly serve you a year—two 
years—any term you might appoint—before that 
should begin to be a consideration between us.” 

*‘ Where do you come’from ?” asked Mr. Bof- 
fin. 

‘I come,” returned the other, meeting his 
eye, ‘‘from_many. countries.” 

Mr. Boffin’s acquaintance with the names and 
Situations of foreign lands being limited in ex- 
tent and somewhat confused in quality, he shaped 
his next question on an elastic model. 

**Prom—any particular place?” 

**T have been in many places.” 

“What have you been?” asked Mr. Boffin. 

Here again he made no great advance, for 
the reply was, ‘‘I have-been- avstudent*and a 
traveler.”’ 

“ But if it ain’t a liberty to plump it out,” said 


Mr. Boffin, ‘“‘what do you do for your living?” 


“T have mentioned,” returned the other, with 


another look at him, and a smile, “ what I as- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


There was something re- | 
fan) 


ye 
goat 


‘pire todo. Ihave been superseded as to some 
| slight intentions I had, and I may say that [ 
have now to begin life.” 

Not very well knowing how to get rid of this 
applicant, and feeling the more embarrassed be- 
cause his manner and appearance claimed a del- 
icacy in which the worthy Mr. Boffin feared 
he himself might be deficient, that gentleman. 
glanced into the mouldy little plantation or cat- 
preserve, of Clifford's Inn, as it was that day, 
| in search of a suggestion. Sparrows were there, 
cats were there, dry-rot and wet-rot were there, 
but it was not otherwise a suggestive spot. 

‘‘ All this time,” said the stranger, producing 
a little pocket-book and taking out a card, ‘I 
jhave not mentioned my name. “My name is 
Rokesmith. Ilodge at one Mr. Wilfer’s, at Hol- 
loway.? 

Mr. Boffin stared again. 

‘* Father of Miss Bella Wilfer ?”’ said he. 

**My landlord has a daughter named Bella. 
Yes; no doubt.” 

Now this name had been more or less in Mr. 
Boffin’s thoughts all the morning, and for days 
before; therefore he said: 

‘<That’s singular, too!” unconsciously staring 
again, past all bounds of good manners, with: 
the card in his hand. ‘+ Though, by-the-by, I 
suppose it was one of that family that pinted me 
out ?” 

-**No. I have never been in the streets with 
one of them.” : 

‘*Heard me talked of among ’em, though ?” 

*“No. I oceupy my own rooms, and have 
held scarcely any communication with them.” 

** Qdder and odder!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘+ Well, 
Sir, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what to 
say to you.” 

‘*Say nothing,” returned Mr. Rokesmith ; 
‘fallow me to call on you in a few days. I 
am not so unconscionable as to think it likely 
that you would accept me on trust at first sight, 
and take me out of the very street. Let me 
come to you for your further opinion, at your 
Jeisure.”’ ' 

“That's fair, and I don’t object,” said Mr. 
Boffin; ‘‘but it must be on condition that it’s 
fully understood that I no more know that I 
shall ever be in want of any gentleman as Secre- 
tary—it was Secretary you said; wasn’t it?” 

Yes.” ; * 

Again Mr. Boffin’s eyes opened wide, and he 
stared at the applicant from head to foot, re- 
peating ‘‘ Queer!—You’re sure it was Secretary ? 
Are you?” 

‘“‘T am sure I said so.” 

—“‘ As Secretary,” repeated Mr. Boffin, 
itating upon the word; ‘‘I no more know that 
| 1 may ever want a Secretary, or what not, than 
I do that I shall ever be in want of the man in 
the moon. Me and Mrs. Boffin have not even 
settled that we shall make any change in our 
way of life. Mrs. Boffin’s inclinations certain- 
ly do tend toward Fashion; but, being already 
set up in a fashionable way at the Bower, she 
may not make further alterations. However, 
Sir, as you don’t press yourself, I wish to meet 
you so far as saying, by all means call at the 
Bower if you like. Call in the course of a week 
or two. At the same time, I consider that I 
Fought to name, in addition to what I have al- 
: ready named, that I have in my employment a 


Be 


3, 


ax 
med-. 


* 


5G f ! OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. : Py 


literary man—wvrth a wooden leg—as I have no 
thoughts of parting from.” 

‘*T regret to hear Iam in some sort antici- 
pated,” Mr. Rokesmith answered, evidently hay- 
ing heard it with surprise; ‘‘but perhaps other 
duties might arise ?” 

“*You see,” returned Mr. Boffin, with a con- 
fidential sense of dignity, ‘‘as to my literary 
man’s duties, they’re clear. Professionally he 
declines and he falls, and as a friend he drops 
into poetry.” 

Without observing that these duties seemed by 
no means clear to Mr. Rokesmith’s astonished 
comprehension, Mr, Boffin went on: 

‘And now, Sir, I’ll wish you good-day. You 
can call at the Bower any time in a week or two. 
It’s not above a mile or so from you, and your 
Jandlord can direct you to it. But as he may 
not know it by its new name of Boffin’s Bower, 
Say, when you inquire of him, it’s Harmon’s; 
will you ?” 


‘‘ Harmoon’s,” repeated Mr, Rokesmith, seem-’ 


ing to have caught the sound imperfectly, ‘‘ Har- 
marn’s. How do you spell it ?” 

‘* Why, as to the spelling of it,’”’ returned Mr. 
Boffin, with great presence of mind, ‘that’s 
your look-out. Harmon’s is all you’ve got to 
Say to im. Morning, morning, morning!” And 
so departed, without looking back. 


PEA AT OS 
CHAPTER IX. 


MR. AND MRS. BOFFIN IN CONSULTATION. 


Betakine himself straight homeward, Mr. 
Boffin, without further let or hindrance, arrived 
at the Bower, and gave Mrs. Boffin (in a walk- 
ing-dress of black velvet and feathers, like a 
mourning coach-horse) an account of all he had 
said and done since breakfast. 

‘This brings us round, my dear,” he then 
pursued, ‘‘to the question we left unfinished: 
namely, whether there’s to be any new go-in 
for Fashion.” 

‘Now, I'll tell you what I want, Noddy,” 
said Mrs. Boffin, smoothing her dress with an 
air of immense enjoyment, ‘‘I want Society.” 

‘* Fashionable Society, my dear ?” 

**Yes!” cried Mrs. Boffin, langhing with the 
glee of achild. ‘Yes! It’s no good my being 
kept here like Wax-Work; is it now ?” 

‘*People have to pay to see Wax-Work, my 
dear,” returned her husband, ‘‘ whereas (though 
you'd be cheap at the same money) the neigh- 
bors is welcome to see you for nothing.” 

‘* But it don’t answer,” said the cheerful Mrs. 
Boffin. ‘When we worked like the neighbors, 
we suited one another. Now we have left work 
off, we have left off suiting one another.” 

‘What, do you think of beginning work 
again ?” Mr. Boffin hinted. 

‘*Out of the question! We have come into 
a great fortune, and we must do what's right by 
our fortune; we must act up to it.” 

Mr. Boffin, who had a deep respect for his 
wife’s intuitive wisdom, replied, though rather 
pensively: ‘‘I suppose we must.”’ 

‘*It’s never been acted up to yet, and, conse- 
quently, no good has come of it,” said Mrs. 
Boffin. | 

‘* True, to the present time,” Mr. Boffin as- 


] 


| 
| 


sented, with his former pensiveness, as he took — 
his seat upon his settle. ‘1 hope good may be | 
coming of it in the fature time. Toward which, — 
what's your views, old lady ?” : 

Mrs. Boffin, a smiling creature, broad of figure 
and simple of nature, with her hands folded in 
her lap, and with\buxom creases in her throat, | 
proceeded to expound her views. . 

“Tsay, a good house in a good neighborhood, 
good things about us, good living, and good so- 
ciety. J say, live like our means, without ex- 
travagance, and be happy.” 

‘Yes. J say be happy, too,” assented the 
still pensive Mr. Boffin. 3 

‘* Lor-a-mussy !” exclaimed Mrs. Boffin, langh- 
ing and clapping her hands, and gayly rocking 
herself to and fro, ‘‘when I think of me in a 
light yellow chariot and pair, with silver-boxes 
to the wheels—” 

‘Oh! you was thinking of that, was you, my 
dear?” . 

‘*Yes!’’ cried the delighted creature.’ *¢ And _ 
with a footman up behind, with a bar across, to 
keep his legs from being poled! And with a- 
coachman up in front, sinking down into a seat 
big enough for three of him, all covered with 
upholstery in green and white! And with two 
bay horses tossing their heads and stepping high- 
er than they trot long-ways! And with you 
and me leaning back inside, as grand as nine-_ 
pence! QOh-h-h-h My! Ha ha ha ha ha!” 

Mrs. Boffin clapped her hands again, rocked 
herself again, beat her feet upon the floor, and 
wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. 

“And what, my old lady,” inquired Mr. Bof- 
fin, when he also had sympathetically laughed : 
‘‘what’s your views on the subject of the Bower ?” 

‘Shut it up. Don’t part with it, but put some- 
body in it, to keep it.” 

** Any other views ?” 

‘* Noddy,” said Mrs. Boffin, coming from her 
fashionable sofa to his side on the plain settle, 
and hooking her comfortable arm through his, 
“Next I think—and I really have been think- 
ing early and late—of the disappointed girl; 
her that was so eruelly: disappointed, you know, 
both of her husband and his riches. “Don’t you 
think we might do something for her? Have 
her to live with us? Or something of that sort?” 

** Ne-ver once thought of the way of doing it!” - 
cried Mr. Boffin, smiting the table in his admi- 
ration, ‘*What a thinking steam-ingein this 
old lady is. And she don’t know how she does 
it. Neither does the ingein!” 

Mrs. Boffin pulled his nearest ear, in acknowl 
edgment of this piece of philosophy, and then 
said, gradually toning down toa motherly strain: | 
‘* Last, and not least, I have taken a fancy. You 
remember dear little John Harmon, before he 
went to school? Over yonder across the yard, 
at our fire? Now that he is past all benefit of 
the money, and it’s come to us, I should like to — 
find some orphan child, and take. the boy and” 
adopt him and give him John’s name, and pro- — 
vide for him. Somehow, it would make mé 
easier, I fancy. Say it’s only a whim—” 

‘* But I don’t say so,” interposed her husband. 

**No, but deary, if you did—” 

**T should be a Beast if I did,” her husband _ 
interposed again. | 3 

“'That’s as much as to say you agree? Good — 
and kind of you, and like you, deary! And — 


¥ 


2 


+ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


don’t you begin to find it pleasant now,” said 
Mrs. Boffin, once more radiant in her comely 
way from head to foot, and once more smooth- 
ing her dress with immense enjoyment, ‘‘don’t 
you begin to find it pleasant already, to think 

that a child will be made brighter, and better, 
and happier, because of that poor sad child that 
day? And isn’t it pleasant to know that the 
good will be done with the poor sad child’s own 
money ?” 

‘‘Yes; and it’s pleasant to know that you are 
Mrs. Boffin,” said her husband, ‘and it’s been 
a pleasant thing to know this many and many a 
year!” It was ruin to Mrs. Boffin’s aspirations, 
but, having so spoken, they sat side by side, a 
hopelessly Unfashionable pair. 

These two ignorant and unpolished people had 
guided themselves so far on in their journey of 
life by a religious sense of duty and desire to 
do.right. Ten thousand weaknesses and ab- 
surdities might have been detected in the breasts 
of both; ten thousand vanities additional, possi- 
bly, fn the breast of the woman. But the hard 
wrathful and sordid nature that had wrung as 
much work out of them as could be got in their 
best days, for as little money as could be paid 
to hurry on their worst, had never been so warp- 
ed but that it knew their moral.straightness-and 
respected it. In its own despite, in a constant 
conflict with itself and them, it had done so. 
And this is the eternal law. For, Evil often 
stops short at itself and dies with the doer of it; 
but Good, never. = 

Through his ntost inveterate purposes, the 
dead Jailer of Harmony Jail had known these 
two faithful servants to be honest and true. 


- While he raged at them and reviled them for 
opposing him with the speech of the honest and 


true, it had scratched his stony heart, and he 
had perceived the powerlessness of all his wealth 
to buy them if he had addressed himself to the 
attempt. So, even while he was their griping 
taskmaster and never gave them a good word, 
he had written their names down in his will. 
So, even while it was his daily declaration that 
he mistrusted all mankind—and sorely indeed he 
did mistrust all who bore any resemblance to 
himself—he was as certain that these two people, 
surviving him, would be trust-worthy in all things 
from the greatest to the least, as he was that he 
must surely die. ms 3 

Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, sitting side by side, with 
Fashion withdrawn to an immeasurable distance, 
fell to discussing how they could best find their 
orphan, Mrs. Boftin suggested advertisement in 
the newspapers, requesting orphans answering 
annexed description to apply at the Bower on a 
certain day'; but Mr. Boffin wisely apprehending 
obstruction of the neighboring thoroughfares by 


_ orphan swarms, this course was negatived. Mrs. 


Boffin next suggested application to their clergy- 
man for a likely orphan. Mr, Boffin thinking 
better of this scheme, they resolved to call upon 
the reverend gentleman at once, and to take the 
same opportunity of making acquaintance with 
Miss Bella Wilfer. In order that these visits 
might be visits of state, Mrs. Boffin’s equipage 
was ordered out. | 
This consisted of a long hammer-headed old 
horse, formerly used in the business, attached to 
a four-wheeled chaise of the same period, which 
* had long been exclusively used by the Harmony 
: eg 


aN 


ae 


57 
Jail poultry. as the favorite laying-place of sev- 
eral discreet hens. An unwonted application of 
corn to the horse, and of paint and varnish to 
the carriage, when both fell in as a part of the 
Boffin legacy, had made what Mr. Boftin con- 
sidered a neat turn-out of the whole; and a’ 
driver being added, in the person of a long ham- 
mer-headed young man who was a very good 
match for the horse, left nothing. to be desired, 
He, too, had been formerly used in the business, 
but was now entombed by an honest jobbing 
tailor of the district in a perfect Sepulchre of 
coat and gaiters, sealed with ponderous buttons, 

Behind this domestic Mr. and Mrs. Boffin 
took their seats in the back compartment of the 
vehicle: which was sufficiently commodious, but 
had an undignified and alarming tendency, in 
getting over a rough crossing, to hiccup itself 
away from the front compartment. On their 
being descried emerging from the gates of the 
Bower, the neighborhood turned out at door and 
window to salute the Boftins. Among those who 
were ever and again left behind, staring after 
the equipage, were many youthful spirits, who 
hailed it in stentorian tones with such congratu- 
lations as ‘‘ Nod-dy Bof-fin!” * Bof-fin’s mon- 
ey!” ‘*Down with the dust, Bof-fin!” and oth- 
er similar compliments. These, the hammer- 
headed young man took in such ill part that he ' 
often impaired the majesty of the progress by 
pulling up short, and making as though he would 
alight to exterminate the offenders; a purpose 
from which he only allowed himself to be dis- 
suaded after long and lively arguments with his 
employers. 

At length the Bower district was left behind, 
and the peaceful dwelling of the Reverend Frank 
Milvey was gained. The Reverend Frank Mil- 


_Yey’s abode was a very modest abode, because 


his income was a very modest income. He was 
officially accessible to every blundering old wo- 
man who had incoherence to bestow upon him, 
and readily received the Boffins. He was quite 
a young man, expensively educated and wretch- 
edly paid, with quite a young wife and half a 
dozen quite young children. He was under the 
necessity of teaching and translating from the 
classics to eke out his scanty means, yet was 
generally expected to have more time to spare 
than the idlest person in the parish, and more 
money than the richest. He accepted the need- 
less ‘inequalities and inconsistencies of his life, 
with a kind of conventional submission that was 
almost slavish; and any daring layman who 
would have adjusted such burdens as his, more 
decently and graciously, would have had small 
help from him. 

With a ready patient face and manner, and 
yet with a latent smile that showed a quick 
enough observation of Mrs. Boftin’s dress, Mr. 
Milvey, in his little back room—charged with 
sounds and cries as though the six children above 
were coming down through the ceiling, and the 
roasting leg of mutton below were coming up 
through the floor—listened to Mrs. Boffin’s state- 
ment of her want of an orphan, | 

‘“*T think,” said Mr. Milvey, “‘that you have 
never had a child of your own, Mr. and Mrs. 
Boffin ?” ” 

Never. 

** But, like the Kings and Queens in the Fairy 
Tales, I suppose you have wished for one ?”” 


58 


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_ OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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1, 
i 


—— < 


—— 


THE BOFFIN PROGRESS. 


In a general way, yes. 

Mr. Milvey smiled again, as he remarked to 
himself, ‘‘‘Those kings and queens were always 
wishing for children.” It occurrisg to him, per- 
haps, that if they had been Curates, their wishes 
might have tended in the opposite direction. 

**T think,” he pursued, ‘‘ we had better take 
Mrs. Milvey into our Council. She is indispens- 
able to me. If you please, I’ll call her.” 

So Mr. Milvey called, ‘‘Margaretta, my dear!” 
and Mrs. Milvey came down. A pretty, bright 
little woman, something worn by anxiety, who 
had repressed many pretty tastes and bright fan- 
cies, and substituted in their gtead schools, soup, 
flannel, coals, and all the week-day cares and 


_ Sunday coughs of a large population, young and. 


old. As gallantly had Mr. Milvey repressed 


old studies and old fellow-students, and taken 
up among the poor and their children with the 
hard erumbs of life. 

‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, my dear, whose good 
fortune you have heard of.” 

Mrs. Milvey, with the most unaffected grace 
in the world, congratulated them, and was glad 
to see them. Yet her engaging face, being an 
open as well as a perceptive one, was not with- 
out her husband’s latent smile. 

“ Mrs. Boffin wishes to adopt a little boy, my 
dear.” 


Mrs. Milvey, looking rather alarmed, her hus- | 


band added: 

‘¢ An orphan, my dear.” 

‘‘Oh!” said Mrs. Milvey, reassured for her 
own little boys. — 


much in himself that naturally belonged te his| ‘‘ And I was thinking, Margaretta, that per- 


difficult to discharge. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 59 


haps old Mrs. Goody’s deanaeiita might answer 
the purpose.” : , 

“Oh my dear Frank! I don’t think that 
would do!” ' 7 

Nor: ) 

“Oh no!” 

The smiling Mrs. Boffin, feeling it incumbent 
on her to take part in the conversation, and 
being charmed with the emphatic little wife and 
her ready interest, here offered her acknowledg- 
ments, and inquired what there was against 
him? te’ 

“‘T don’t think,” said Mrs. Milvey, glancing 
at the Reverend Frank—‘‘and I believe my 
husband will agree with me when he considers it 
again—that you could possibly keep that orphan 


clean from snuff. Because his grandmother takes 


so many ounces, and drops it over him.” 

~** But he would not-be living with his grand- 
mother then, Margaretta,” said Mr. Milvey. 

‘No, Frank, but it would be impossible to 
keep her from Mrs. Botfin’s house; and the 
more there was to eat and drink there, the oftener 
she would go. And she is an inconvenient wo- 
man. I hope it’s not uncharitable to remember 
that last Christmas Eve she drank eleven cups 
of tea, and grumbled all the time. And she is 
not a grateful woman, Frank. You recollect her 


_ addressing a crowd outside this house about her 
wrongs, when, one night after we had gone to: 


bed, she brought back the petticoat of new flan- 


nel that had been given her, because it was too | 


short.” 

“That’s true,” said Mr. Milvey. ‘‘I don’t 
think that would do. Would little Harrison—”’ 

“Oh, Frank!” remonstrated his emphatic 
wife. 

“‘ He has no grandmother, my dear.” 

**No, but I don’t think Mrs. Boffin would like 
an orphan who squints so much.” 

‘‘'That’s true again,” said Mr. Milvey, becom- 
ing haggard with perplexity. ‘‘If a little girl 
would do—” 

‘But, my dear Frank, Mrs. Boffin wants a 
boy.” 

“'That’s true again,” said Mr. Milvey. ‘Tom 
Bocker is. a nice boy” (thoughtfully). 

‘*But I doubt, Frank,” Mrs. Milvey hinted, 
after a little hesitation; ‘‘if Mrs. Boffin wants 
an orphan gute nineteen, who drives a cart and 
waters the roads.” 

Mr. Milvey referred the point to Mrs. Boffin in 
a look; on that smiling lady’s shaking her black 
velvet bonnet and bows, he remarked, in lower 
spirits, ‘‘’That’s true again.”’ i 

‘*T am sure,’ said Mrs. Boffin, concerned at 
giving so much trouble, ‘‘that if I had known 
you would have taken so much pains, Sir—and 
you too, ma’am—I don’t think I would have 
come.” : 

** Pray don’t say that!” urged Mrs. Milvey. 

**No, don’t say that,” assented Mr. Milvey, 
“‘ because we are so much obliged to you for giy- 
ing us the preference.” Which Mrs. Milvey con- 
firmed ; and really the kind, conscientious couple 
spoke as if they kept some profitable orphan ware- 
house and were personally patronized. ‘‘ But it 
is a responsible trust,”’ added Mr. Milvey, ‘‘ and 
At the same time, we are 
naturally very unwilling to lose the chance you 
so kindly give us, and if yom could afford us a 
day or two to look about us—you know, Marga- 


retta, we might carefully examine the work-house, 
and the Infant School, and your District.” 
‘*'To be sure!” said the emphatic little wife. 
‘‘We have orphans, I know,” pursued Mr. 
Milvey, quite with the air as if he might have 
added, ‘‘in stock,” and quite as anxiously as if 
there were great competition in the business and 
he were afraid of losing an order, ‘‘over at the 
clay-pits; but they are employed by relations or 
friends, and I am afraid it would come at last to 
a transaction in the way of barter. And even 
if you exchanged blankets for the child—or 
books and firing—it would be impossible to pre- 
vent their being turned into liquor.” 
Accordingly, it was resolved that Mr. and 
Mrs. Milvey should search for an orphan likely 
to suit, and as free as possible from the foregoing 
objections, and should communicate again with 
Mrs. Boffin, Then Mr. Boffin took the liberty 
of mentioning to Mr. Milvey that if Mr. Milvey 
would do him the kindness to be perpetually his 
banker to the extent of ‘‘a twenty-pound note 
or so,” to be expended without any reference to 
him, he would be heartily obliged. At this both 
Mr. Milvey and Mrs. Milvey were quite as much 
pleased as if they had no wants of their own, but 
only knew what poverty was in the persons of 
other people; and so the interview terminated 
with satisfaction and good opinion on all sides. 
‘* Now, old lady,” said Mr. Boffin, as they re- 
sumed their séats behind the hammer-headed 
horse and man. ‘‘ having made a very agreeable 


| visit there, we’ll try Wilfer’s.” 


It appeared, on their drawing up at the fami- 
ly gate, that to try Wilfer’s was a thing more 
easily projected than done, on account of the ex- 
treme difficulty of getting into that establishment ; 
three pulls at the bell producing no external re- 
sult, though each was attended by audible sounds 
of scampering and rushing within. Atthe fourth 
tug-—vindictively administered by the hammer- 
headed young man—Miss Lavinia appeared, 
emerging from the house in an accid 1tal man- 
ner, with a bonnet and parasol, asd igning to 
take a contemplative walk. The a ung lady 
was astonished to find visitors at the gate, and 
expressed her feelings in appropriate action, 

‘*Here’s Mr. and Mrs. Boffin!” growled the 
hammer-headed young man througlthe bars of 
the gate, and at the same time shaking it, as if 
he were on view ina Menagerie, ‘‘they’ve been 
here half an hour.” 

‘¢Who did you say ?” asked Miss Lavinia. ~ 

‘*Mr,. and Mrs. Borrin!” returned the young — 
man, rising into a roar. 

Miss Lavinia tripped up the steps to the house- 
door, tripped dowmthe steps with the key, tripped 
across the little garden, and opened the gate. 
‘* Please to walk in,” said Miss Lavinia, haughti-_ 
ly. ‘* Our servant is out.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Boffin complying, and pausing 
in the little’ hall until Miss Lavinia came up to 
show them where to go next, perceived three 
pairs of listening legs upon the stairs above. 
Mrs. Wilfer’s legs, Miss Bella’s legs, Mr. George 
Sampson’s legs. 

‘¢ Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, I think?” said Lavinia, 
in a warning voice. 

Strained attention on the part of Mrs. Wilfer’s 
legs, of Miss Bella’s legs, of Mr. George Samp- — 
son’s legs. 

‘* Yes, Miss.” 


Se ae. 


yy 


60 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“If you'll step this way—down these stairs— 
Tl let Ma know.” 

Excited flight ‘of Mrs. Wilfer’s legs, of Miss 
Bella’s legs, of Mr. George Sampson’s legs. 

After waiting some quarter of an hour alone 
_in the family sitting-room, which presented traces 
of having been so hastily arranged after a meal 
that one might have doubted whether it was 
made tidy for visitors, or cleared for blindman’s- 
buff, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin became aware of the 
entrance of Mrs. Wilfer, majestically faint, and 
with a condescending stitch in her side: which 

was her company manner. 
“¢ Pardon me,” said Mrs. Wilfer, after the first 
salutations, and as soon as she had adjusted the 
handkerchief under her chin, and waved her 
gloved hands, ‘‘to what am I indebted for this 
honor ?” 

‘¢To make short of it, ma’am,” returned Mr. 
Boffin, ‘‘ perhaps you may be acquainted with 
the names of me and Mrs. Boffin, as having come 
into a certain property.” 

“‘T have heard, Sir,’’ returned Mrs. Wilfer, 
with a dignified bend of her head, ‘‘of such 
being the case.” 

‘¢And I dare say, ma’am,” pursued Mr. Bof- 
fin, while Mrs. Boffin added confirmatory nods 
and smiles, “ you are not very much inclined to 
take kindly to us ?” 

‘¢Pardon me,” said Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘’I'were 
unjust to visit upon Mr, and Mrs. Boffin a ca- 
lamity which was doubtless a dispensation.” 
These words were rendered the more effective 
by aserenely heroic expression of suffering. 

‘¢That’s fairly meant, I am sure,’”’ remarked 
the honest Mr. Boffin; ‘‘ Mrs. Boffin and me, 
ma’am, are plain people, and we don’t want to 
pretend to any thing, nor yet to go round and 
round at any thing: because there’s always a 
straight way to every thing. Consequently, we 
make this call to say, that we shall be glad to 
have the honor and pleasure of your daughter’s 
acquaintance, and that we shall be rejiced if 
your daughter will come to consider our house 
in the light of her home equally with this. In 
short, we want to cheer your daughter, and to 
give her the opportunity of sharing such pleas- 
ures as we are a going to take ourselves. We 
want to brisk her up, and brisk her about, and 
give her a change.” 

‘¢That’s it!” said the open-hearted Mrs. Bof- 
fin. ‘Lor! Let’s be comfortable.” 

Mrs. Wilfer bent her head in a distant man- 
ner to her lady visitor, and with majestic mo- 
notony replied to the gentleman: 

“Pardon me. I have several daughters. 
Which of my daughters am I to understand is 
- thus favored by the kind intentions of Mr. Bof- 
fin and his lady ?” 


*‘Don’t you see?” the ever-smiling Mrs. Bof- 


fin put in. ‘Naturally, Miss Bella, you know.” 

‘¢Oh-h!” said Mrs. Wilfer, with a severely un- 
convinced look. ‘My daughter Bella is access- 
ible, and shall speak for herself.” Then open- 
ing the door a little way, simultaneously with 
a sound of scuttling outside it, the good lady 
made the proclamation, ‘‘Send Miss Bella to 
me!” Which proclamation, though grandly 
formal, and one might almost say heraldic, to 
hear, was in fact enunciated with her maternal 
eyes reproachfally glaring on that young lady 
im the flesh—and in so much of it that she was 


f : 
retiring with difficulty into the small closet un- 
der the stairs, apprehensive of the emergence of 
Mr. and Mrs: Boffin. ‘ 

‘‘The avocations of R. W., my husband,” 
Mrs. Wilfer explained, on resuming her seat, 
‘“‘keep him fully engaged in the City at this 
time of the day, or he would have had the hon- 
or of participating in your reception beneath our 
humble roof.” 

‘Very pleasant premises!” said Mr. Boffin, 
cheerfully. 

‘¢Pardon me, Sir,’ returned Mrs. Wilfer, cor- 


independent Poverty.” 

Finding it rather difficult to pursue the con- 
versation down this road, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin 
sat staring at mid-air, and Mrs. Wilfer sat si- 
lently, giving them to understand that every 
breath she drew required to be drawn with a 
self-denial rarely paralleled in history, until Miss 
Bella appeared: whom Mrs. Wilfer presented, 
and to whom she explained the purpose of the 
visitors. 


‘¢T am much obliged to you, I am sure,” said 
Miss. Bella, coldly shaking her curls, ‘‘but I~ 


doubt if I have the inelination to go out at all.” 

‘¢ Bella!” Mrs. Wilfer admonished her; ‘‘ Bel- 
la, you must conquer this.” 

‘¢ Yes, do what your Ma says, and conquer it, 
my dear,” urged Mrs. Boftin, “‘ because we shall 
be so glad to have you, and because you are 
much too pretty to keep yourself shut up.” 
With that the pleasant creature gave her a kiss, 
and patted her on her dimpled: shoulders; Mrs. 
Wilfer sitting stiffly by, like a functionary pre- 
siding over an interview previous to an execu- 
tion. 

‘¢We are going to move into a nice house,” 
said- Mrs. Boffin, who was woman enough to 
compromise Mr. Boffin on that point, when he 
couldn’t very well contest it; ‘‘and we are go- 
ing to set up a nice carriage, and we’ll go ev- 
ery where and see every thing. And you 
mustn't,” seating Bella beside her, and patting 
her hand, ‘‘ you mustn’t feel a dislike to us to 
begin with, because we couldn’t help it, you 
know, my dear.” 

With the natural tendency of youth to yield 
to candor and sweet temper, Miss Bella was so 
touched by the simplicity of this address that she 
frankly returned Mrs. Boffin’s kiss. Not at all 
to the satisfaction of that good woman of the 
world, her mother, who sought to hold the ad- 
vantageous ground of obliging the Boffins in- 
stead of being obliged. 


‘*My youngest daughter, Lavinia,” said Mrs.. 


Wilfer, glad to make a diversion, as that young 
lady reappeared. “‘Mr. George Sampson, a 
friend of the family.” BA 
The friend of the family was in that stage of 
the tender passion which bound him to regard 
every body else as the foe of the family. He 
put the round head of his cane in his mouth, 
‘like a stopper, when he sat down. As if he felt 
himself full to the throat with affronting senti- 
‘ments. And he eyed the Bofiins with implaca- 
ble eves. 
| ‘If you like to bring your sister with you 
when you come to stay with us,” said Mrs. Bof- 
fin, ‘‘of course we shall be glad. The better 
| you please yourself, Miss Bella, the better you’ll 
_ please us.” | . | 


recting him, ‘‘ it is the abode of conscious though’ 


: 
ie 
f 
is 


Oe ee a ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“Oh, my consent is of no consequence at all, 
I suppose?” cried Miss Lavinia. | 
‘*Lavvy,” said her sister, in a low voice, 
“have the goodness to be seen, and not heard.” 
**No, I won’t,” replied the sharp Lavinia. 
“Pm not a child, to be taken notice of by 
strangers.” 
**You are a child,” 
“*I’m not a child,'and I won’t be taken notice 
‘Bring your sister,’ indeed!” 


of. 

“Lavinia!” said,’ Mrs. Wilfer. ‘“‘Hold! I 
will not allow you to utter in my presence the 
absurd suspicion that any strangers-—I care not 
what their names—can patronize my child. Do 
you dare to suppose, you ridiculous girl, that 
Mr. and Mrs. Boflin would enter these doors 
upon a patronizing errand; or, if they did, 
would remain within them, only for one single 
instant, while your mother had the strength yet 
remaining in her vital frame to request them to 
depart? You little know your mother if you 
presume to think so.” 

**It’s all very fine,” Lavinia began to grum- 
ble, when Mrs. Wilfer repeated : 

“Hold! I will not allow this. Do you not 
know what is due to guests? Do you not com- 
prehend that in presuming to bint that this lady 
and gentleman could have any idea of patroniz- 
ing any member of your family—I care not 
which—you accuse them of an impertinence 
little less than insane-?” 

‘Never mind me and Mrs, Boffin, ma’am,” 
said Mr. Boffin, smilingly: ‘‘we don’t care.” 

‘ “ Pardon me, but J do,” returned Mrs. Wilfer. 

Miss Lavinia Jaughed a short laugh as she 
muttered, ‘‘ Yes, to be sure.” : 

“ And I require my audacious child,” proceed- 
ed Mrs. Wilfer, with a withering look at her 
youngest, on whom it had not the slightest ef- 
fect, ‘‘to please to be just to her sister Bella; to 
remember that her sister Bella is much sought 
after; and that when her sister Bella accepts an 
attention, she considers herself to be conferring 
qui-i-ite as mach honor”—this with an indig- 
nant shiver—‘‘ as she receives.” 

But here Miss Bella repudiated, and said qui- 
etly, “I can. speak for myself, you know, ma. 
You needn’t bring me in, please.” 

“And it’s all very well aiming at others 
through convenient me,” said the irrepressible 
Lavinia, spitefully; ‘‘but I should like to ask 
George Sampson what he says to it.” 

‘*“Mr. Sampson,” proclaimed Mrs. Wilfer, 
seeing that young gentleman take his stopper 
out, and so darkly fixing him with her eyes as 
that he put it in again: ‘‘Mr. Sampson, asa 
friend of this family and a frequenter of this 
house, is, Iam persuaded, far too well-bred to 
interpose on such an invitation.” 

This exaltation of the young gentleman moved 
the conscientious Mrs. Boffin to repentance for 
having done him an injustice in her mind, and 
consequently to saying that she and Mr. Boffin 
would at any.time be glad to see him; an at- 
tention which he handsomely acknowledged by 
replying, with his stopper unremoved, ‘ Much 


obliged to you, but I’m always engaged, day and | 


night.” 

However, Bella compensating for all. draw- 
backs by responding to the advances of the Bof- 
» fins in an engaging way, that easy pair were 

on the whole well satisfied, and proposed to the 


61 


said Bella that as soon as they should be in a 
condition to receive her in a manner suitable to 
their desires, Mrs. Boftin should return with no- 
tice of the fact. This arrangement Mrs. Wilfer 
sanctioned with a stately inclination of her head 
and wave of her gloves, as who should say, 
‘Your demerits shall be overlooked, and you 
shall be mercifully gratified; poor people.” 

‘‘ By-the-by, ma’am,” said Mr: Boftin, turn- 
ing back as he was going, ‘‘you havea lodger ?”’ 

‘A gentleman,” Mrs. Wilfer answered, quali- 
fying the low expression, ‘ undoubtedly occupies 
our first floor.” 

“I may call him Our Mutual Friend,” said 
Mr. Boffin.. ‘What sort of a fellow is Our 
Mutual Friend, now? Do you like him?” 

_ “Mr. Rokesmith is very. punctual, very-quiet, 
a very eligible inmate.” 

‘* Because,” Mr. Boffin explained, “you must 
know that I’m not particularly well acquainted 
with Our Mutual Friend, for I have only seen 
him once. You give a good account of him. 
Is he at home?” 

‘““ Mr. Rokesmith is at home,” said Mrs. Wil- 
fer; ‘‘indeed,” pointing through the window, 
‘‘there he stands at the garden gate. Waiting 
for you, perhaps?” ' 

** Perhaps so,” replied Mr. Boffin. 
come in, maybe.” 

Bella had closely attended to this short dia- 
logue. Accompanying Mrs. Boffin to the gate, 
she as closely watched what followed. 

‘* How are you, Sir, how are you ?”’ said Mr. 
Boffin. “This is Mrs. Boffin. Mr. Rokesmith, 
that I told you of, my dear.” 

She gave him good-day, and he bestirred him- 
self and helped her to her seat, and the like, with 
a ready hand. 

‘*Good-by for the present, Miss Bella,” said 
Mrs. Boftin, calling out a hearty parting. ‘*We 
shall meet again soon! And then I hope I 
shall have my little John Harmon to shew you.” 

Mr. Rokesmith, who was at the wheel adjust- 
ing the skirts of her dress, suddenly looked be- 
hind him and around him, and then looked up 
at her, with a face so pale that Mrs, Boffin 
cried ; t 

** Gracious And after.a moment, “ What’s 
the matter, Sir?” 

‘‘How can you show her the Dead?” re- 
turned Mr. Rokesmith. 

‘*Jt’s only an adopted child. One I have told 
her of. One I’m going to give the name to!” 

‘You took me by surprise,” said Mr Roke- 
smith, ‘‘and it sounded like an omen, that you 
should speak of showing the Dead to one so 
young and blooming.” MD 

Now Bella suspected by this time that Mr. 
Rokesmith admired her. Whether the know]- 
edge (for it was rather that than suspicion) 
caused her to incline to him a little more, or a 
little less, than she had done at first; whether it 
rendered her eager to find out more about him, 
because she sought to establish reason for her 
distrust, or because she sought to free him from 
it; was as yet dark toher own heart. But at most. 
times he occupied a great amount of her atten- 
tion, and she had set her attention closely on 
this incident. 

That he knew it as well as she, she knew as 
well as he, when they were left together stand- 
ing on the path by the garlen gate. 


‘¢ Saw me 


ee) 


( 


62 


<¢'Those are worthy people, Miss Wilfer.” 

<‘Do you know them well?” asked Bella. 

He smiled, reproaching her, and she colored, 
reproaching herself—both, with the knowledge 
that she had meant to entrap him into an an- 
swer not true—when he said “I know of them.” 

“Truly, he told us he had seen you but 
once.” 

“Truly, I supposed he did.” 

ella was nervous now, and would have been 
glad to recall ber question. 

‘You thought it strange that, feeling much 
interested in you, I should start at what sound- 
ed like a proposal to bring you into contact with 
the murdered man who lies in his grave. I 
might have known—of course in a moment 
should have known—that it could not have that 
meaning. But my interest remains.” 

Re-entering the family-room in a meditative 
state, Miss Bella was received by the irrepressi- 
ble Lavinia with: 

“There, Bella! At last I hope you have got, 
your wishes realized—by your Boffins, You'll’ 

e rich enough now—with your Boffins. You 
can have as much flirting as you like—at your 
Boffins. But you won’t take me to your Boffins, 
I can tell you—you and your Boffins too!” 

‘Tf quoth Mr. George Sampson, moodily 
pulling his stopper out, ‘‘ Miss Bella’s Mr. Boffin 
comes any more of his nonsense to me, I only 
wish him to understand, as betwixt man and 
man, that he does it at his per—’’ and was go- 
ing to say peril; but Miss Lavinia, having no 
confidence in his mental powers, and feeling his 
oration to have no definite application to any 
circumstances, jerked his stopper in again, with 
a sharpness that made his eyes water. 

And now the worthy Mrs, Wilfer, having used 
her youngest daughter as a lay-figure for the 
edification of these Boffins, became bland to her, 
and proceeded to develop her last instance of 
force of character, which was still in reserve. 
This was, to illuminate the family with her re- 
markable powers as a physiognomist; powers 
that terrified R. W. whenever let loose, as being 
always fraught with gloom and evil which no 
inferior prescience was aware of. Aud this Mrs. 
Wilfer now did, be it observed, in jealousy of 
these Boffins, in the very same moments when 
she was already reflecting how she would flour- 
ish these very same Boffins and the state they 
kept, over the heads of her Boffinless friends. 

‘Of their manners,” said Mrs. Wilfer, ‘‘I 
say nothing. Of their appearance, I say nothing. 
Of the disinterestedness of their intentions to- 
ward Bella, I say nothing. But the craft, the 
secreey, the dark, deep underhanded plotting, 

-written ia Mrs. Boffin’s countenance, make me 
shudder.” 

As an incontrovertible proof that those bale- 
ful attributes were all there, Mrs. Wilfer shud- 
dered on the spot. 


a 


CHAPTER X. 
A MARRIAGE CONTRACT. 

THERE is excitement in the Vencering man- 
sion. ‘The mature young lady is going to be 
married (powder and all) to the mature young 
gentleman, and she is to be married from the. 


do with traffic in Shares. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | "a 


Veneering house, and the Veneerings are to 
give the breakfast. The Analytical;who ob- 
jects as a matter of principle to every thing that 
occurs on the premises, necessarily objects to the 
match; but his consent has been dispensed with, 
and a spring-van is delivering its load of green- 
house plants at the door, in order that to-mor- 
row’s feast may be crowned with flowers. 

The mature young lady is a lady of property. 
The mature young gentleman is a gentleman of 
property. He invests his property. He goes, 
in a condescending amateurish way, into the 
City, attends meetings of Directors, and has to 
As is well known to 
the wise m their generation, traffic in Shares is 
the one thing to have to do with in this world. 
‘Have no antecedents, no established character, 
no cultivation, no ideas, no manners; -have 
Shares. Have Shares enough to be on: Boards 
of Direction in capital letters, oscillate on mys- 
terious business between London and Paris, and 
be great. Where does he come from? Shares. 
Where is he going to? Shares. What are his 
tastes? Shares. Has heany principles? Shares. 
What squeezes him into Parliament? Shares. 
Perhaps he never of himself achieved success in 
any thing, never originated any thing, never 
produced any thing? Sufficient answer to all; 
Shares. O mighty Shares! To set those blar- 
ing images so high, and to cause us smaller ver- 
min, as under the influence of henbane or opi- 
um, to cry out, night and day, ‘* Relieve us of 
our money, scatter it for us, buy us and sell us, 
ruin us, only we beseech ye take rank among 
the-powers of the earth, and fatten on us!” 

While the Loves and Graces have been pre- 
paring this torch for Hymen, which is to be kin- 
dled to-morrow, Mr. Twemlow has suffered much 
in his mind. It would seem that both the ma- 
ture young lady and the mature young gentle- ~ 
man must indubitably be Veneering’s oldest 
friends. Wards of his, perhaps? Yet that can 
scarcely be, for they are older than himself. 
Veneering has been in their confidence through- 
out, and has done much to lure them to the al- 
tar. He has mentioned to Twemlow how he 
said to Mrs. Veneering, ‘“‘Anastatia, this must 
be a match.” He has mentioned to Twemlow 
how he regards Sophronia Akershem (the ma- 
ture young lady) in the light of a sister, and 
Alfred Lammle (the mature young gentleman) 
in the light of a brother. ‘Twemlow has. asked 
him whether he went to school as a junior with 
Alfred? He has answered, ‘‘ Not exactly.” 
Whether Sophronia was adopted by his mo- 
ther? He has answered, ‘‘ Not precisely so.” 
Twemlow’s hand has gone to his forehead with 
a lost air. " 

But, two or three weeks ago, Twemlow, sit- 
ting over his newspaper, and over his dry toast 
and weak tea, and over the stable-vyard in Duke 
Street, St. James’s, received a highly-perfumed 
cocked-hat and monogram from Mrs. Veneer- 
ing, entreating her dearest Mr. T., if not partic- 
ularly engaged that day, to come like a charm- 
ing soul and make a fourth at dinner with dear 
Mr. Podsnap, for the discussion of an interest- 
ing family topic; the last three words doubly | 
underlined and pointed with a note of admira- 
tion. And Twemlow, replying, ‘‘ Not engaged, 
and more than delighted,” goes, and this takes 
place: vi) 4 


me Pew 


Firs 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘¢ My dear Twemlow,” 
ready pense to Anastatia’s urtceremonious in- 
vitation. is truly kind, and like an old, old friend. 
You know our dear friend Podsnap ?” 

Twemlow ought to know the dear friend Pod- 
snap who covered him with so much confusion, 
and he says he does knOw him, and Podsnap re- 
ciprocates. 
wrought upon in a short time, as to believe 
he has been intimate in the house many, many, 
many years. In the friendliest manner he is 
making himself quite at home with: his back to 
the fire, executing a statuette of the Colossus 
at Rhodes. 
feeble way how soon the Ve 
come infected with the Veneering fiction. Not, 
however, that he has the least notion of its be- 
ing his Ow n case. 

‘“Our friends, Alfred and Sophronia,” pur- 
sues Veneering the veiled prophet: ‘ our friends 
Alfred and Sophronia, you will be glad to hear, 
my. dear fellows, are going to be married. As 


my wife and I make it a family affair, the en- | 
tire direction of which we take npon ourselves, of | 


course our first step is to communicate the fact 
to our family friends. 

(*Oh!” thinks Twemlow, with his eyes on 
Podsnap, ‘‘then there, are only two of us, and 


’ he’s the other.”) 


‘*T did hope,” Veneering goes on, ‘‘to have 
had Lady Tippins to meet you; but she is al- 
ways in request, and is unfortunately engaged.” 

(“ Oh!” thinks Twemlow, with his eyes wan- 
dering, ‘‘then there are three of us, and she’s 
the other.””) 

** Mortimer Lightwood,” resumes Venecring, 
“whom you_both know, is out of town; but he 
writes, in his whimsic al manner, that.as-we ask 
him to be bridegroom’s best man when.the cere- 
mony takes place, he will not refuse, though he 
doesn’t see what he has to do with it.” 

(“Oh!” thinks Twemlow, with his eyes roll- 
ing, ‘‘then there are four of us, and he’s the 
other.”’) 

‘Boots and Brewer,” observes Veneecring, 
‘whom you also know, I have not asked to- 
day; but I reserve them for the occasion.” 

(‘* Then,” thinks Twemlow, with his eves shut, 
‘‘there are si—” But here collapses and does 
not completely recover until dinner is over and 
the Analytical has been requested to withdraw. ) 

““We now come,” s says Veneering, ‘‘to the 
point, the real point, of our little family consult- 
ation. Sophronia, having lost both fat] ver and 
mother, has no one to give her away.” 

“Give her away yourself,” says Podsnap. 

““Mby dear Podsnap, no. For three reasons. 
W, because I couldn’t take so much upon 
myself when I have respected family friends to 
remember. Secondly, because J am not so vain 
as to think that I look the part. Thirdly, be- 
cause Anastatia is a little superstitious on the 
subject, and feels averse to my giving away any 
body until baby is old enough to be married.” 

‘“What would happen if he did?” Podsnap 
inquires of Mrs. Vencering. 

‘My dear Mr. Podsnap, it’s very foolish I 
know, but I have an instinctive presentiment 
that if Hamilton gave away any body else first, 
he would never give away baby.” ‘Thus Mrs. 
Veneering; with her open hands pressed to- 
gether, and each of her eight aquiline fingers 


Apparently, Podsnap has been so | 
that 


‘Twemlow has before noticed in his | 
eering guests be- 


| 


and fifty in number, ‘‘is now among us. 


63 


says Veneering, “your looking so very like her one aquiline nose that 


the bran-new jewels on them seem necessary fur 
distinction’s sake. 

‘* But, my dear Podsnap,” quoth Veneering, 
“there ts a tried friend of our family who, I 
think and hope you will agree with me, Podsnap, 
is the friend on whom this agreeable duty almost 
naturally devolves. . That friend,” saying the 
words as if the company were about a hundred 
That 
friend is 'Twemlow.” 

‘*Certainly!” From Podsnap. 

“That friend,” Veneering repeats with great- 
er firmness, ‘‘is our dear good Twemlow. And 
I can not sufficiently express to you, my dear 
Podsnap, the pleasure I feel in having this opin- 
ion of mine and Anastatia’s so readily confirmed 
by you, that other equally familiar and tried 
friend who stands in the proud position—I mean 
who proudly stands in the position—or I ought 
rather to say, who places Anastatia and myself 
in the proud position of himself standing in the 
simple position—of baby’s godfather.” And, in- 
deed, Veneering is much relieved in mind to find 
that Pod snap betrays no jealousy of Twemlow’s 
elevation. 

So it has come to pass that the spring-van is 
strewing flowers on the rosy hours and on the 
staircase, and that Twemlow is surveying the 
ground on which he is to play his distinguished 
part to-morrow. He has already been to the 
church, and taken note of the various impedi- 
ments in the aisle, under the auspices of an ex- 
tremely dreary widow who opens the pews, and 
whose left hand appears to be in a state of acute 
rheumatism, but is in fact voluntarily doubled 
up to-act as a moncy-box. 

And now Veneering shoots out of the Study 
wherein he is accustomed, when contemplative, 
to give his mind to the carving and gilding of the 
Pilgrims going to Canterbury, in order to show 
T'wemlow the little flourish he has prepared for 
the trumpets of fashion, describing how that on 
the seventeenth instant, at St. James’s Church, 
the-Reverend Blank Blank, assisted by the Rev- 
erend Dash Dash, united in the bonds of mat- 
rimony Alfred Lammle, Esquire, of Sackville 
Street, Piccadilly, to Sophronia, only daughter 
of the late Horatio Akershem, Esquire, of York- 
shire. Also how the fair bride was married from 
the house of Hamilton Veneering, Esquire, of 
Stucconia, and was given away by Melvin Twem- 
low, Esquire, of Duke Street, St. James’s, second 
cousin to Lord Snigsworth, ef Snigsworthy Park. 
While perusing which composition, ‘Twemlow 
makes some opaque approach to perceiving that 
if the Reverend Blank Blank and the Reverend 
Dash Dash fail, after this introduction, to be- 
come enrolled in the list of Veneering’s dearest 
and oldest friends, they will have none but them- 
selves to thank for it. 

After which appears Sophronia (whom Twem- 
low has seen twice in his lifetime), to thank 
Twemlow for counterfeiting the late Horatio 
Akershem Esquire, broadly of Yorkshire. And 
after her appears Alfred (whom Twemlow has 
seen once in his lifetime), to do the same and te 
make a pasty sort of glitter, as if he were con- 
structed for candle-light only, and had been let 
out into daylight by some gr and mistake. And 
after that comes. Mrs. Vencering, in a pervad- 
ingly aquiline state of figure, and with transpar- 


& 


64 


ent little knobs on her temper, like the little 
transparent knob on the bridge of her nose, 
‘*Worn out by worry and excitement,” as she 
tells her dear Mr. Twemlow, and reluctantly re- 
vived with curacoa by the Analytical. And after 
that, the bridemaids begin to come by railroad 
from various parts of the country, and to come 
like adorable recruits enlisted by a sergeant not 
present? for, on arriving at the Veneering dépét, 
they are in a barrack of strangers. 

So Twemlow goes home to Duke Street, St. 
James’s, to take a plate of mutton broth with a 
chop in it, and a look at the marriage-service, in 
order that he may cut in at the right place to- 
morrow; and he is low, and feels it dull over 


the livery-stable yard, and is distinctly aware of }and lo the rest of the characters. 


a dint in his heart, made by the most adorable 
of the adorable bridemaids. For, the poor little 
harmless gentleman once had his fancy, like the 
rest of us, and she didn’t answer (as she often 
does not), and he thinks the adorable bridemaid 
is like the fancy as she was then (which she is 
not at all), and that if the fancy had not mar- 
ried some one else for.money, but had married 
him for love, he and she would have been happy 
(which they wouldn’t have been), and that she 
has a tenderness for him still (whereas her tough- 
ness is a proverb). Brooding over the fire, with 
his dried little head in his dried little hands, 
and his dried little elbows on his dried little 
knees, ‘Twemlow is melancholy. ‘** No Adorable 
to bear me company here!” thinks he. ‘* No 
Adorable at the club! A waste, a waste, a 
waste, my Twemlow!” And so drops asleep, 
and has galvanic starts all over him. 

Betimes next morning, that horrible old Lady 


=4 Member of that gentleman’s family. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


ing air upon him of having presupposed the 
ceremony to be a funeral, and of, being disap- 
pointed. The scene is the Vestry-room of St. 
James’s Church, with a number of leathery old 
registers on shelves, that. might be bound in 
Lady Tippinses. 6 
But, hark! A carriage at the gate, and Mor- 
timer’s man arrives, looking rather like a spu- 
rious Mephistopheles and an unacknowledged 
Whom 
| Lady Tippins, surveying through her eye-glass, 
considers a fine man, and quite a catch; and of 
whom Mortimer remarks, in the lowest spirits, 
as he approaches, ‘‘I believe this is my fellow, 
confound him!’ More carriages at the gate, 
Whom 
Lady Tippins, standing on a cushion, surveying: 
through the eye-glass, thus checks off: ‘* Brides 
five-and-forty if a day, thirty shillings a yard, 
veil fifteen pound, pocket-hanckerchief a present. 
Bridemaids; kept down for fear of outshining 
bride, consequently not girls, twelve and six- 
pence a yard# Veneering’s flowers, snub-nosed 


ings, bonnets three pound ten. Twemlow; 
blessed release for the dear man if she really was 
his daughter, nervous even under the pretense 
that she is, well he may be. Mrs. Veneering; 

ever saw such velvet, say two_thousand pounds 
as she stands, absolute jeweler’s window, father 
must have been _a pawnbroker, or how could these 
Attendant unknowns, pokey.” ¢ 


neering, carriages rolling back to Stueconia, 


servants with favors and flowers, Veneering’s 


ippins (relict of the late Sir Thomas Tippins, | house reached, drawing-rooms most magnifi- 


knighted in mistake for somebody else by His | cent. 


Here, the Podsnaps await the happy 


Majesty King George the Third, who, while per-f[party; Mr. Podsnap, with his hair-brushes made 
1 forming the ceremony, was graciously pleasedj| the most. of; that imperial rocking-horse, Mrs. 


to observe, ‘* What, what, what? 
who? 
and varnished for the interesting occasion. She 
has a, reputation for giving smart.accounts. of 
things, and she must be at these people’s early, 
my dear, to lose nothing of the fun. Where- 
about in the bonnet and drapery announced by 
her name, any fragment of the real woman may 
be concealed, is perhaps known to her maid; 
but vou could easily buy all you see of her, in 
Bond Street; or you might scalp her, and peel 
her, and scrape her, and make two Lady Tip- 
pinses out of her, and yet not penetrate to the 
genuine article. She has a large gold eye- 
glass, has Lady Tippins, to survey the proceed- 
ings with. If she had one in each eye, it might 
keep that other drooping lid up, and look more 
uniform. But perennial youth is in her arti- 


ficial flowers, and her list of lovers is full. 


‘* Mortimer, you wretch,” says Lady Tippins, 
turning the eye-glass about and about, ‘‘ where 


/ is your charge, the bridegroom ?” 


‘¢Give you my honor,” returns Mortimer, ‘I 


«don’t know, and I don’t care.” 


Eugene is also in attendance, with a pervad- 


Who, who, | Podsnap, majestically skittish. 
Why, why, why?’’) begins to be dyed | Boots and Brewer, andthe two other Buffers ; 


Here, too, are 


each Buffer with a flower in his button-hole, 
his hair curled, and his gloves buttoned on tight, 
apparently come prepared, if any thing had hap- 
pened to the bridegroom, to be married instant- 
|ly. Here, too, the bride’s aunt and next rela- 
tion; a widowed female of a Medusa sort, in a 


i 


creatures. Here, too, thé bride’s trustee ;-an 
oilcake-fed style of business- gentleman with 
moony spectacles, and an object of much in- 
terest. Veneering launching himself upon this 
trustee as his oldest friend (which makes seven, 
Twemlow thought), and confidentially retiring 
with him into the conservatory, it is understood 
that Veneering is his co-trustee, and ag ney 
are arranging about the fortune. Buffe¥s are 
even overheard to whisper Thir-ty Thou-sand 
Pou-nds! with a smack and a relish suggestive 
of the very finest oysters. Pokey unknowns, 
amazed to find how intimately they know Ve- 
neering, pluck up spirit, fold their arms, and 
begin to contradict him before breakfast. What 


Sere naan eeLa 


to a dignified conclusion several quarrels he | 
has on hand with the pastry-cook’s men, an- — 


one rather pretty but too conscious of her stock-, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


nounces breakfast. Dining-room no less mag- 
nificent than drawing-room; tables superb; all 
the camels out, and all Jaden. Splendid cake, 
covered with Cupids, silver, and true - lovers’ 
knots. Splendid bracelet, produced by Veneer- 
ing before going down, and clasped upon the 
arm of bride. Yet nobody seems to think much 
more of the Veneerings than if they were a tol- 
erable landlord and landlady doing the thing in 
the way of business at so much a head. ‘The 
bride and bridegroom talk and laugh apart, as 
2as always been their manner; andthe Buffers 
-work their way through the dishes with system- 
‘.ati¢ perseverance, as has always been their man- 
ner; and the pokey unknowns are exceedingly 


eC cneaient to one another in invitations to take 
£ 


lasses of Champagne; but Mrs. Podsnap, arch- 
ing her mane and rocking her grandest, has a 
far more deferential audience than Mrs. Ve- 
neering; and Podsnap all but does the honors. 
Another dismal circumstance is, that Veneer- 
ing, having the captivating Tippins on cone side 
of him and the bride’s aunt on the other, finds 
it immensely difficult to keep the peace. For, 

Medusa, besides unmistakingly glaring petrifac- 
..tion at the fascinating Tippins, follows every 

lively remark made by that dear creature with 
-an audible snort: which may be referable to a 
chronic cold in the head, but may also be refer- 
able to indignation and contempt. And this 
snort being regular in its reproduction, at length 
comes to be expected by the company, who make 
embarrassing pauses when it is falling due, and 
by waiting for it, render it more emphatic when 
it comes. The stony aunt has likewise. an in- 
jurious way of rejecting all dishes whereof Lady 
Tippins partakes: saying aloud when they are 
protiered to her, ‘No, no, no, not for me. Take 
> it away !”" As ‘with a set purpose of implying a 
misgiving that if nourished upon similar meats | 
she might come to be like that charmer, which | 
would be a fatal consammation. Aware of her 
enemy, Lady Tippins tries a youthful sally or 
two, and tries the eye-glass; but, from the im- 
penetrable cap and snorting armor of the stony | 
aunt all weapons. rebound powerless. 

Another objectionable circumstance is, that 
the pokey unknowns support éach other in being 
unimpressible. They persist in not being fright- 
sei by the gold and silver camels, and ‘they are 

anded together to defy the elaborate ly chased 

ice-pails.. They even seem.to unite in some 
vague utterance of the sentiment that the land- 
Jord and landlady will make a pretty good profit 
pnt of this, and they almost carry themselves like 
customers. Nor is there compensating influence 
in the adorable bridemaids; for, having very 
little interest in the bride, and none at all in 
one another, those lovely beings become, each 
one on her own account, depreciatingly contem- 
plative « of the millinery present ; while the bride- 
groom’s man, exhausted, in the back of his chair, 
appears to be i improving ‘the vec casion by peniten- 
tially contemplating all the wrong he has ever 
done ; the difference between him and his friend 
Eugene being, that the latter, in the back of Azs 
chair, appears to be contemplating all the wrong 
he would like to CCE nouiatly to the present 
company. 
In which state of affairs, the usual ceremonies 
rather droop and flag, and the splendid cake 
when cut by the fair hand of the bride has but 


A 


65 


an indigestible appearance. However, all the 
things indispensable to’be said are said, and all 
the things indispensable to be done are done (in, 
cluding Lady ‘Tippins’s yawning ; falling asleep, 

and waking insensible), and there is hurried 
preparation for the nuptial journey to the Isle of 
Wight, and the outer air teems with brass bands 
and spectators. In full sight of whom, the ma- 
lignant star of the Analytical has pre- -ordained 
that pain and ridicule shall befall him. For he 
standing on the doorsteps to grace the departur, 
is suddenly caught a most prodigious thump 
the side of his head with a heavy shoe, whic 
Buffer in the hall, Champagne-flushed and w 
| of aim, has borrowed on the spur of the mon 
from the pastry-cook’s porter, to cast after 
departing pair as an auspicious omen. 

So they all go up again into the gorg 
drawing-rooms—all of them flushed with b» 
fast, as having taken scarlatina sociably— 
there the combined unknowns do maligi 
things with their legs to ottomans, and take % 
much as possible ont of the splendid furniture. 
And. so Lady Tippins, quite undetermined 
whether to-day is the day before yesterday, or 
the day after to-morrow, or the weck after next, 
fades away; and Mortimer Lightwood and Eu- 
gene fade away, and ‘Twemlow fades away, and 
| the stony aunt goes away—she declines to fade, 
proving rock to the last—and even the unknowns 
| are slowly strained off, and it is all over. 

All over, that is to say, for the time being. 
But there is another time to come, and it comes 
in about a fortnight, and it comes to Mr. and 
Mrs. Lammile on the sands at Shanklin, in the 
i Isle of Wight. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lammle have walked for some 
time on the Shanklin sands, and one ae see 
by their footprints that they have not walked 
arm in arm, and that they ‘have not walked in 
a straight tr ‘ack, and that they have walked in 
a moody humor; for the lady has prodded lit- 
tle spirting holes in the damp sand before her 
with her parasol, and the gentleman has trailed 
his stick after him. As if he were of the Me- 
phistopheles family indeed, and had walked with 
a drooping tail. 

‘¢Do you mean to tell me, then, Sophronia—” 

Thus he begins after a long silence, when 
Sophronia flashes fiercely, and turns upon him. 

**Pon’t put it upon me, Sir. I ask you, do 
you mean to tell me?” 

Mr. Lammile falls silent again, and they walk 
as before. Mrs. Lammle opens her nostrils and 
mbites her under “hip; Mr. Lammile takes his gin- 
gerous Whiskers in his left hand, and, bringing 
them together, frowns furtively at his beloved, 
out of a thick gingerous bush. 

“To J mean. to say!” Mrs. 
time repeats, with indignation. ‘‘ Putting it on 
me! The unmanly disingenuousnes ss!” 

Mr. Lammle stops, releases his whisker s, and 
looks at her. ‘‘ The what ?” 

Mrs. Lammle haughtily replies, 
ping, and without looking back: 
ness.” 

He is at her side again in a pace or two, and 
he retorts, ‘‘That is not what you said. You 
said disingenuousness.” 

“What if I did ?” 

‘¢There isno ‘if’ in the case. You did.” 

}  ‘*I did, then. And what of it?” 


Lammle after a 


without stop- 
‘¢'The mean- 


ab ODay ne 
2S 2 eeeae 
=| ined =F 
oe & oo Soe 
- | ao 4 2.5 ee oo 
4 ‘MIVd AddVH AHL Q&S Seog eh 
— put Dy go ee 
fhe Pia & 2 ee 
po ee ee 
t oo See eee 
Res? gisee 
: eee SERSE aS 
p = ee se See 
eds ee ee = mn 8 
ke) Oa py oO She... a= 
a eg: EoRE YS 
f=} On = 0 nm o 
a re Bg og ne nhs 
GZ 22+ OO ~ROE pb, 
| Risse t = EGa 29 
mos Oe es 
2 ea. o S S Gss pe 
oS SP oa &, 
ec = a oe eo 
ae S$ 2asg aes aa 
= jo} OR 6 (oe) os tN 
| eee Pao PS Se 
iS grge ots gos Foe 
eae = BOs ,APSa™8S50 
fy i Za |e BZ H ane D 24H 49 “Eos =} la 
| Zoe 7S ES OSS Serr Bae 
ra ‘ifs ou Of 20 oo 
< Mm Py AaeU Fe A, 
o ! n 
E | ee eee ee 
= it Yio Jt) pe fae 2g gr mee 
My hk Y wm — as g Pm 
wed le Gees ee : ~ 
pom = : Ss: fitttll- at see & Wo —! 
Sa ; ~~ (ob) sa 45 9 = 
faa ~- 84 ames et 
=) = Hevsture 
sS Es gare 
© ee38 ase SSag 
Eo. = = orn & O=v 
~ ont o am ey ples se a 
aS = oes oe Se 
ae : = Ao.o Ow 
SEBES ESSER SS 
om & © oso Fos 
noe By eeHTes Es. 
qo = [ae aro 
Gos 2 ee ou se 
A Os ma = se ey ee ey 
S= Oo. wees fsa 
Reel act SZmESE = 
Sof sets a xo g tse 
oO ¢ BH OP Eo. Se 
2 15 4 oe f=] ee see 
oe oe ne ~ ne 2 SS uw 8 
Spy Oo eer SoM ~2Pes 
: eotun ~ foe See 
Poh ee aa eed She. 
ries ip ot eg ee ee 
ide) ro) 0 bo ao 
e2 Homo ee 
oO a SU ‘a DA 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. g 


“*T asked Veneering, and he told me you were 
mach.” 

“* Veneering!”’ with great contempt. 
what does. Veneering’know about me!”’ 

‘Was he not your trustee ?” 

*“No. Ihave no trustee but the one you saw 
on the day when you fraudulently married me. 
“And his trust is not a very difficult one, for it,is 
only an annuity of a hundred and fifteen pounds. 
I think there are some odd shillings or pence, if 
you are very particular.” 

Mr. Lammle bestows a by no means loving 
look upon the partner of his joys and sorrows, 
‘and jie mutiers something ; but checks himself. 

‘Question for question. Itis my turn again, 
Mrs. Lammle. What made you suppose me a 
man of property ?” 

* “You made me suppose you so. Perhaps you 
will deny that you always presented yourself to 
me in that character ?” 

_ ** But you asked somebody, too. 
Lammile, admission for admission. 
somebody ?” 

**T asked Veneering.”’ 

‘* And Veneering knew as much of me as he 
knew of you, or as any body knows of him.” 

After more silent walking, the bride stops 
short, to say in a passionate manner: 

“J never will forgive the Veneerings for this!” 

** Neither will [,” returns the bridegroom. 

With that they walk again; she, making 
those angry spirts in the sand; he, dragging that 
dejected tail. The tide is low, and seems to 
have thrown them together high on the bare 
shore. A gull-comes sweeping by their heads, 
and flouts them. ‘There was a golden surface 
on the brown cliffs but now, and behold they are 
only damp earth. A taunting roar comes from 
the sea, and the far-out rollers mount upon one 
another, to look at the entrapped impostors, and 
to join in impish and exultant gambols. * 

**Do you pretend to believe,” Mrs. Lammle 
‘resumes, sternly, ‘‘ when you talk of my marry- 
ing you for worldly advantages, that it was with- 
in the bounds of reasonable probability that I 
would have married you for yourself?” 

‘** Again there are two sides to the question, 
‘Mrs. Lammle. What do you pretend to believe ?” 

_ **So you first deceive me and then insult me!” 
cries the lady, with a heaving bosom. 

**Not at all. Ihave originated nothing. The 
double-edged question was yours.” 

** Was mine!” the bride repeats, and her par- 
_asol breaks in her angry hand. 

His color has turned to a livid white, and om- 
‘inous marks have come to light about his nose, 
as if the finger of the very devil himself had, 
within the last few moments, touched it here 
and there. But he has repressive power, and 
she has none. 

“Throw it away,’’ he coolly recommends as 
to the parasol ; *‘ you have made it useless; you 
look ridiculous with it.” 

Whereupon she calls him, in her rage, ‘‘A de- 
liberate villain,” and so casts the broken thing 
from her as that it strikes him in falling. The 
finger-marks are something whiter for the in- 
stant, but he walks on at, her side. 

She bursts into tears) declaring herself the 
wretchedest, the most deceived, the worst-used, 
of women. Then she says that if she had the 
courage to kill herself she would do it. Then 


s¢ And 


Come, Mrs. 
You asked 


67 


she calls him vile impostor. Then she asks him, 
why, in the disappointment of his base specula- 
tion, he does not take her life with his own hand, 
under the present favorable circumstances, Ther 
she cries again. ‘Then she is enraged again, 
and makes some mention of swindlers, Finally, 
she sits down crying on a block of stone, and is 
in all the known and unknown humors of her 
sex at once. Pending her changes, those afore- 
said marks in his face have come and gone, now 
here now there, like white stops of a pipe on 
which the diabolical performer has played a 
tune. - Also his livid lips are parted at last, as 
if he were breathless with running. Yet he is 
not. io 

‘‘Now, get up,. Mrs. Lammle, and let us 
speak reasonably.” 

She sits upon her stone, and takes no heed af 
him. 

‘*Get up, I tell you.” 

taising her head, she looks contemptuously 
in his face, and repeats, ** You tell me! ‘Tell 
me, forsooth !” 

She atfects not to know that his eyes are fas- 
tened on her as she droops her head again; but 
her whole figure reveals that she knows it un- 
easily. 

“Enough of this. 
Get up.” ; 

Yielding to his hand, she rises, and they walk 
again; but this time with their faces turned to- 
ward their place of residence. 

** Mrs. Lammile, we have both been deceiving, 
and we bave both been deceived. We have both 


Come! Do you hear? 


been biting, and we have both been bitten. In 
a nut-shell, there’s the state of the case.” 

‘*You sought me out—”’ 

“Put! Let us have done with that. We 


know very well how it was. Why should you 
and I talk about it, when you and I can’t dis- 
guise it? ‘To proceed. Jam disappointed, and 
cut a poor figure.” 

‘¢Am Ino one?” 

‘* Some one—and I was coming to you, if you 
had waited a moment. You, too, are disap- 
pointed and cut a poor figure.” 

**An injured figure !” 

“You are now cool enough, Sophronia, to 
see that you can’t be injured without my being 
equally injured; and that therefore the mere 
word is not to the purpose. When I look back, 
I wonder how I can have been such» fool’as to 
take you to so great an extent upon-trust.” 

**And when I look back—” the bride cries, 
interrupting. 

‘* And when you look back, you wonder how 
you can have been—you'll excuse the word ?” 

‘*Most certainly, with so much reason.” 

*¢__Such a fool as to take me to so great an 
extent upon trust. But the folly is committed 
on both sides. I can not get rid of you; you 
can not get rid of me. What follows?” 

‘*Shame and misery,” the bride bitterly re- 
plies. 

‘“¢T don’t know. A mutual understanding fol- 
lows, and I think it may carry us through. 
Here I split my discourse (give me your arm, 
Sophronia) into three heads, to make it shorter 
and plainer. Firstly, it’s enough to have been 
done, without the mortification of being known 
to have been done. So we agree to keep the 
fact to ourselves. You agree?” | 


jee 


the’ world ? 


68 


“Tf it is possible, I do.” 

‘¢ Possible! We have pretended well enough 
to one another. Can’t we, united, pretend to 
Agreed. Secondly, we owe the 
Veneerings a grudge, and we owe all other peo- 
ple the grudge of wishing them to be taken in, 
as we ourselves have been taken in. Agreed?” 

““Yes. Agreed.” 

‘We come smoothly to thirdly.. You have 
ealled me an adventurer, Sophronia. So [ am. 
In plain uncomplimentary English, so I am, 
So are you, my dear. So are many people. 


We agree to keep our own secret, and to work 


together in furtherance of our own schemes.” 

‘What schemes?” 

‘«¢ Any scheme that will bring us money. By 
our own schemes, I mean our joint interest. 
Agreed ?” 

She answers, after a little hesitation, ‘‘I sup- 
pose so. Agreed.” 

‘‘Carried at once, you see! Now, Sophronia, 
only half a dozen words more. We know one 
another perfectly. Don’t be tempted into twit- 


ting me with the past knowledge that. you have 


of me, because it is identical with the past knowl- 
edge that I have of you, and in twitting me you 
twit yourself, and I don’t want to hear vou do it. 
With this good understanding established be- 
tween us, it is better never done. ‘To wind up 
all:—You have shown temper to-day, Sophronia. 
Don’t be betrayed into doing so again, because 
I have a Devil of a temper myself” 

‘So the happy pair, with this hopefal marriage 
contract thus signed, sealed, and delivered, re- 
pair homeward. If, when those infernal finger- 
marks were on the white and breathless counte- 
nance of Alfred Lammle, Esquire, they denoted 
that he coneeived the purpose of subduing -his 
dear wife Mrs. Alfred Lammle, by at once di- 
vesting her of any lingering reality or pretense 
of self-respect, the purpose would seem to have 
been presently executed. The mature young 
lady has mighty little need of powder now for 
her downcast face as he escorts her in the light 
of the setting sun to their abode of bliss. 


<> 


CHAPTER XI. 
PODSNAPPERY. 


Mr. Popsnap was well to do, and stood very 
high in Mr. Podsnap’s opinion, Beginning with 
a good inheritance, he had married a good in- 
heritance, and had thriven exceedingly in the 
Marine Insurance way, and was quite satisfied. 
He never could make out why every body was 
not quite satisfied, and he felt conscious that he 
set a brilliant social example in being particu- 
larly well satisfied with most things, and, above 
all other things, with himself. 

Thus happily acquainted with his own merit 
and importance, Mr. Podsnap settled that what- 
ever he put behind him he put ont of existence. 
There was a dignified conclusiveness—not to add 

grand convenience—in this way of getting rid 
of disagreeables which had done much toward 
establishing Mr. Podsnap in his lofty place in 

r. Podsnap's satisfaction. ‘‘I don’t want to 

now about it; I don’t choose to discuss it; I 
‘don’t admit it!” Mr. Podsnap had even ac- 


[quired a peculiar flourish of his right arm in 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. , : 


soften clearing the world. of its most difficult, 
problems, by sweeping them behind him’ (and 
consequently sheer away) with those words and_ 
a flushed face. For they affronted him. = 

Mr. Podsnap’s world was not a very large) 
world, morally; no, nor even geographically ¢ | 
seeing that although his business was sustained — 
upon commerce with other countries, he consid~ 


ered other countries, with that important reser=_ 


vation, a mistake, and of their manners and_ 
customs would conclusively observe, ‘‘ Not En-_ 
b lish 1? when, Presto! with a flourish of the. 
arm, and a flush of the face, they were swept 


away.  Elsewise, the world got up at eight, 
shaved close at a quarter past, breakfasted at 
nine, went to the City at ten, came home at 
half past five, and dined at seven. Mr. Pods 
snap’s notions of the Arts in their integrity might 
have been stated thus: Literature; large print, 
respectfully descriptive cf getting up at eight, 
shaving close at a quarter past, breakfasting at 
‘nine, going to the City at ten, coming home at 
half past. five, and dining at seven. Painting 
and Sculpture; models and. portraits represent- 
ing Professors of getting up at eight, shaving 
close at a quarter past, breakfasting at nine, go- 
ing to the City at ten, coming home at half past 
five, and dining at seven. Music; a respecta- 
ble performance (without variations) on stringed 
and wind instruments, sedately expressive of — 
getting up at eight, shaving close at a quarter; 
past, breakfasting at nine, gcing to the City ag 
ten, coming home at half past five, and dining 
at seven. Nothing else to be permitted to those 
same vagrants the Arts, on pain of excommunis” 
cation. Nothing else to Be—any: where! p. 
As a so eminently respectable man, Mr. Pod-— 
snap was sensible of its being required of him to 
take Providence under his protection. - Conse= 
quently he always knew exactly what Provi- 
dence meant. Inferior and less respectable men” 
might fall short of that mark, but Mr. Podsnap 
was always up to’it.. And it was very remarkas- 
ble (and must have be¢n very comfortable) that 
what Providence meant was. invariably what 
Mr. Podsnap meant. i 
These may be said to have been the articles _ 
of a faith and school which the present chapter 
takes the liberty of calling, after its representa=_ 
tive man, Podsnappery. ‘They were confined 
within close bounds, as Mr. Podsnap’s own head 
was confined by his shirt-collar; and they were 
enuntiated with a sounding pomp that smacked 
of the creaking of Mr. Podsnap’s own boots. 
There was a Miss Podsnap. And this young— 
rocking-horse was being trained in her mother 
art of prancing in a stately manner without 
ever getting on. But the high parental action 
was not yet imparted to her, and in truth she” 
was but an undersized damsel, with high shoul- 
ders, low spirits, chilled elbows, and a rasped 
surface of nose, who seemed to take occasional 
frosty peeps out of childhood into womanhood, © 
and to shrink back again, overcome by her mo-_ 
ther’s headedress and her father from head to 
foot—crushed by the mere dead-weight of Pod- 
snappery. ; 
A certain institutio 
which he called “th@* young person”? may 
considered to have been embodied in Miss Ped- 
snap, his daughter. It was an inconvenient an l 
exacting institution, as requiring every thing in 


et el ay 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


the universe to be filed down an fitted to it. 
The question about every thing was, would it 
bring a blush into the cheek of the young per- 
son? . And the inconvenience of the young per- 
son ‘was, ithat, -according to Mr. Podsnap, she 
seemed always liable to burst into blushes when 
there was no need at all. ‘There appeared to be 
no line of demarkation between the young per- 
son’s excessive innocence and another person’s 
guiltiest knowledge. ‘Take Mr. Podsnap’s word 
for it, and the soberest tints of drab, white, lilac, 
and gray, were all flaming red to this. trouble- 
some Bull of a young person. 

The Podsnaps lived in a shady angle adie 
ng Portman Square. They were a kind of peo- 
Je certain to dwell in the shade, wherever they 
welt. Miss Podsnap’s life had been, from her 
rst appearance on this planet, altogether of a 

shady order; for Mr. Podsnap’s young- person 
was likely to get little good out of association 


with other young persons, and had therefore | ¢ 


been restricted to companionship with not very 
congenial older persons, and with massive fur- 
niture. Miss Podsnap’s early views of life being 
principally derived from the reflections of it in 
her father’s boots, and in the walnut and rose- 
wood tables of the dim drawing-rooms, and in 
their swarthy giants of looking-glasses, were of 
a sombre east; and it was not wonderful that 
now, when she was on most days solemnly 
tooled through the Park by the side of her mo- 
ther in a great tall custard-colored phaeton, she 
shewed above the apron of that vehicle like a de- 
jected young person sitting. up in bed to take a 
startled look at things in genéral, and very 
strongly desiring to get her head under the 
counterpane again. 

Said Mr. Podsnap to Mrs. Podsnap, ‘‘ Geor- 
giana is almost eighteen.” 

Said Mrs. Podsnap to Mr. Podsnap, assenting, 
** Almost eighteen.” 

Said Mr. Podsnap then to Mrs. Podsnap, 
“Really I think we should have some people on 
Georgiana’s birthday.” 

Said Mrs. Podsnap then to Mr. Podsnap, 
«Which will enable us to clear off all those 
people who.are due.” 

So it came to pass that Mr. and Mrs. Pod- 
snap requested the honor of the company of sevy- 
entecn friends of their souls at dinner; and that 
they substituted other friends of their souls for 
such of the seventeen original friends of their 
souls as deeply regretted that a prior engage- 
ment prevented their having the honor of dining 
with Mr. and Mrs. Podsnap, in pursuance of 
their kind invitation; and that Mrs. Podsnap 
said of all these inconsolable personages, as she 
checked them off with a pencil in her list, 
“ Asked, at any rate, and got rid of;” and that 
they successfully disposed of a good many friends 
of their souls in this way, and felt their con- 
sciences much lightened. 

There were still other friends of their souls 
who were not entitled to be asked to dinner, but 
had a claim to be invited to come and take a 
haunch of mutton vapor-bath at half past nine. 
For the clearing off of these worthies, Mrs. Pod- 
snap added a small an@j early evening to the 
dinner, and looked in af#the music-shop to be- 
speak a well-conducted automaton to come and 
play quadrilles for a carpet dance. 

_’ Mr. and Mrs. Veneering, and Mr. and Mrs. 


p62 


Veneering’s bran-new bride and _ bridegroom, 
were of the dinner company; but the Podsnap 
establishment had nothing else in common with 
the Veneerings. Mr. Podsnap could tolerate 
taste in a mushroom man who stood in need of 
that sort of thing, but was far above it himself, 
Hideous solidity was the characteristic of the 
Podsnap plate. Every thing was made to look 
as heavy as it could, and to take up as much 
room as possible, Every thing said boastfully, 
‘Here you have as much of me in my ugliness 
as if I were only lead; but I am so many ounces 
of precious metal worth so much an ounce ;— 
wouldn’t you like to melt me down?” A aa 
pulent straddling epergne, blotched all over as 
if it had broken ont in an eruption rather than 


‘been ornamented, delivered this address from 


an unsightly silver platform in the centre of the 
table. Four silver wine-coolers, each furnished 
with four staring heads, each head obtrusively 

carrying a big silver ring in each of its ears, 
conveyed the sentiment up and down the table, 
and handed it on to the pot-bellied silver salt- 
cellars. All the big silver'spoons and forks wid- 
ened the mouths of the company expressly for 
the purpose of thrusting the sentiment down 
their throats with every morsel they ate. 

The majority of the guests were like the plate, 
and included several heavy articles weighing 
ever so much. But there was a foreign gentle- 
man among them: whom Mr. Podsnap had in- 
vited after much debate with himself—believing 
the whole European continent to be in mortal 
alliance against the young person—and there 
was a droll disposition, not only on the part oz 
Mr. Podsnap but of every body else, to treat 
him as if he were a child who was hard of hear, 
ing. 

As a delicate concession to this unfortunate- 
ly-born foreigner, Mr. Podsnap, in receiving him, 
had presented his wife as ‘‘ Madame Podsnap 3” 
also his daughter as ‘‘ Mademoiselle Podsnap,” 
with some inclination to add ‘‘ma fille,” in 
which bold venture, however, he checked him- 
self. The Veneerings being at that time the 
only other arrivals, he had added (in a conde- 
scendingly explanatory manner), ‘‘ Monsieur 
Vey-nair-reeng,”” and had then subsided into 
English. 

‘¢ How Do You Like London ?” Mr. Podsnap 
now inquired from his station of host, as if he 
were administering something in the nature of 
a powder or potion to the deaf child ; ‘*‘ London, 
Londres, London ?” 

The foreign gentleman admired it. 

‘“‘ You find it Very Large ?” said Mr. Podsnap, 
spaciously. 

The foreign gentleman found it very large. 

“And Very Rich ?” 

The foreign gentleman found it, without 
doubt, enormément riche. 

“ Enormously Rich, We say,” returned Mr. 
Podsnap, in a condescending manner. ‘‘Our 
English adver bs do Not terminate in Mong, and 
We Pronounce the ‘ch’ as if there were a ‘t’ 
before it. We Say Ritch.” 

‘* Reetch,” remarked the foreign gentleman. 

“And Do You Find, Sir,” pursued Mr. Pod- 
snap, with dignity, ‘‘ Many Evidences that Strike 
You, of our British Constitution in the Streets 
Of The World’s Metropolis, London, Londres, 
London ?” 


70- OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


The foreign gentieman begged to be pardoned, 
but did not altogether understand. 

“The Constitution Britannique,” Mr. Pod- 
snap explained, as if he were teaching in an in- 
fant school. ‘We Say British, But You Say 
Britannique, You Know” (forgivingly, as if that 
were not his fault). ‘* The Constitution, Sir.” 

The foreign gentleman said, ‘‘ Mais, yees: I 
know eem.” 

A youngish sallowish gentleman in spectacles, 
with a lumpy forehead, seated in a supplement- 
ary chair at a corner of the table, here caused a 
pr ofound sensation by saying, in a raised voice, 
‘* ESKER,” and then stopping dead. 

‘¢ Mais oui,” said the foreign gentleman, turn- 
ing toward him. ‘S Est-ce-que ? Quoi donc ?” 

But the gentleman with the lumpy forehead 
having for the time delivered himself of all that 
he found behind his lumps, spake for the time 
no more. 

“¢T Was Inquiring,’ said Mr. Podsnap, re- 
suming the thread of his discourse, ‘‘ Whether 
You Have Observed in our Streets as We should 


“say, Upon our Pavvy as You would say, any 


Tokens—” 

The foreign gentleman, with patient courtesy 
entreated pardon: ‘‘ But what was tokenz ?” 

‘¢ Marks,” said Mr. Podsnap ; ‘Signs, you 
know, Appearances—Tr aces.’ 

oe Ah! Of a Orse ?”’ inquired the foreign gen- 
tleman. 

‘¢We call it Horse,” said Mr. Podsnap, with 
forbearance. ‘‘In England, Angleterre, En- 
gland, We Aspirate the ‘H,’ and We Say 
‘Horse.’ Only our Lower Classes Say ‘ Orse!’” 

‘‘Pardon,” said the foreign gentleman; ‘‘I 
am alwiz wrong!” 

‘“¢Our Language,” said Mr. Podsnap, with a 
gracious consciousness of being always right, 
‘Cis Difficult. Ours is a Copious Language, and 
Trying to Strangers. I will not Pursue my 
Question.” 

But the lumpy gentleman, unwilling to ‘give 
it up, again madly said, ‘‘ Esker,” and again 
spake no more. 

‘(Tt merely referred,” Mr. Podsnap explain- 
ed, with a sense of meritorious proprietorship, 
“to Our Constitution, Sir. We Englishmen 
are Very Proud of our Constitution, Sir. It 
Was Bestowed Upon Us By Providence. No 
Other Country is so Favored as This Country.” 

‘¢ And ozer countries ?—’’ the foreign gentle- 
man was beginning, when Mr. Podsnap put him 
right again. 

‘¢We do not say Ozer; we say Other: the 
letters are ‘T’ and ‘H;’ You say Tay and Aish, 
You Know; (still with clemency). ‘The sound 
is ‘th’—‘th!” 

“¢ And other countries,” said the foreign gen- 
tleman. ‘‘'They do how?” 

‘«'Phey do, Sir,” returned Mr. Podsnap, grave- 
ly shaking his head; ‘‘they do—I am sorry to 
be obliged to say it—as they do.” 

‘*Tt was a little particular of Providence,” said 
the foreign gentleman, laughing ; ‘for the fron- 
tier is not large.” 

‘‘ Undoubtedly,” assented Mr. 
‘‘But So it is. It was the Charter of the 
Land. This.Island’ was Blest, Sir,"tothe Di- 
rect Exclusion of.such Osher Countries as—as 
there may. happen to be. And if we were all 
Englishmen present, I would say,” added Mr. 


Podsnap ;} 


Podsnap, looking round upon his compatriots, 
and sounding solemnly with his theme, ‘that 
there is in the Englishman a combination of” 
qualities, a. modesty, an independence, a re-— 


sponsibility, a repose, combined with an ab- 
sence of every thing calculated to call a blush - 
finte the cheek of a young person, which one 
would seek in vain among the Nations of ne 


Earth.” | 

Having ‘delivered this little summary, Mr. 
Podsnap’s face flushed as he thought of the re- 
mote possibility of its being at all qualified by 
any prejudiced citizen of any other country; 
and, with his favorite right-arm flourish, he put_ 
the ‘rest of Europe and the whole of Asia, Aft 
rica, and America nowhere. 

The audience were much edified by this pas- 
sage of words; and Mr. Podsnap, feeling that 
he was in rather remarkable force to-day, be- 
came smiling and conversational. 

‘‘Has any thing more been heard, Veneer- 
ing,” he inquired, ‘of the lucky legatee 1 Poe 

‘¢ Nothing more,” returned Veneering, “than 
that he has come into possession of the proper-" 
ty. Iam told people now call him The Golden 
Dustman. I mentioned to you some time ago, 
I think, that the young lady whose intended 
husband was murdered is daughter to a. clerk” 
of mine ?” 

‘Yes, you told m@that,” said Podsnap; ‘“‘and) 
by-the-by, I wish you w ould tell it again heal 
for it’s a curious coincidence—curious that the” 
first news of the discovery should have been® 
brought straight to your table (when I was 
there), and curious that one of your peoplé 
should have been so nearly interested init. Just 
relate that, will you?” 

Veneering was more than ready to do it, for” 
he had prospered exceedingly upon the Har- 
mon Murder, and had turned the social distine- 
tion it conferred upon him to the account of 
making several dozen of bran-new bosom friends. ~ 
Indeed, such another lucky hit would almost” 
have set him up in that way to his ‘sb 


So, addressing himself to the most desirable of 
his neighbors, while Mrs. Veneering secured the 
next most desirable, he plunged into the case, — 
and emerged from it twenty minutes afterward — 
with a Bank Director inhis arms. In the mean 
time, Mrs. Veneering had dived into the same 
waters for a wealthy Ship-Broker, and had 
brought him up, safe and sound, by the hair.” 
Then Mrs. Veneering had to relate, to a larger 
circle, how she had been to see the girl, and how | 
she was really pretty, and (considering her sta 
tion) presentable. And this she did with such 
a successful display of her eight aquiline fingers, 
and their encircling jewels, that she happily laid” 
hold of a drifting “General Officer, his wife and - 
daughter, and not only restored their animation — 
which had become suspended, but made them 
lively friends within an hour. | 
Although Mr. Podsnap would in a general 
way have highly disapproved of Bodies in riv- 
ers as ineligible topics with reference to the 
cheek of the young person, he had, as one may 
say, a share in this affair which made him a 
part proprictor. Asi 
too, in the way of re 


paid, and he was satisfied. 4 
And now the atin of mutton jap 1 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


71 


"“AUATIAIYNSAOd: 


7} tie Bs 4 
WWALE- 


¢ — = Wy Sr ~ 
poe aS 3 = ss Z Si 
BEE ip 
= 


LEH 


GI i \ 
ad OE =~ 
EZ 


having received a gamey infusion, and a few 
last touches of swéets and coffee, was quite ready, 
and the bathers came; but not before the dis- 
creet automaton had got behind the bars of the 
piano music-desk, and there presented the ap- 
| pearance of a captive languishing in a rosewood 
jail. And who now so pleasant or so well as- 
jsorted as Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lammle, he all 
sparkle, she all graci ontentment, both at 
occasienal intervals-e ging looks like part- 
ners at cards who pla a game against All 
England. > a 
_ There was not mugaeogth among the bath- 


NA 


z Se 


jj er 


ers, but there was no youth (the young person 
always excepted) in the articles of Podsnap- 
pery. Bald bathers folded their arms and talk- 
ed to Mr. Podsnap on the hearth-rug; sleek- 
whiskered bathers, with hats in their hands, 
lunged at Mrs. Podsnap and retreated; prowl- 


ing bathers went about looking into ornamental 


boxes and bowls as if they had suspicions of lar- 
ceny on the part of the Podsnaps, and expected 
to find something they had lost at the bottom; 
bathers of the gentler sex sat silently comparing 
ivory shoulders. All this time and always, poor 
little Miss Podsnap, whose tiny efforts (if she 


72 


had made any) were swallowed up in the mag- 
nificence of her mother’s rocking, kept herself 
as much out of sight and mind as she could, and 
appeared to be counting on many dismal returns 
of the day. It was somehow understood, as a 
secret article in the state proprieties of Podsnap- 
pery, that nothing must be said about the day. 
Consequently this young damsel’s nativity, was 
‘hushed up and looked over, as if it were agreed 
on all hands that it would have been better that 
she had never been born. 

The Lammles were so fond of the dear Ve- 


neerings that they could not for some time de-. 


tach themselves from those excellent friends; 
but at length, either a very open smile on Mr. 
Lammle’s part, or a very secret elevation of one 
of his gingerous eyebrows—certainly the one or: 
the other—seemed to say to Mrs. Lammle, 
‘Why don’t you play?” And so, looking 
about her, she saw Miss Podsnap, and seeming 
to say responsively, ‘‘That card?” and to be an- 
swered, ‘‘ Yes,” went and sat beside Miss Pod- 
snap. 

Mrs. Lammle was overjoyed to escape into a 
corner for a little quiet talk. 

It promised to be a very quiet talk, for Miss 
Podsnap replied in a flutter, ‘‘Oh! Indeed, it’s 
very kind of you, but I am afraid I don’é talk.” 

“Let us make a beginning,” said the insinu- 
ating Mrs. Lammle, with her best smile. 

‘‘Oh! I am afraid you'll find me very dull. 
But Ma talks!” 

That was plainly to be seen, for Ma was talk- 
ing then at her usual canter, with arched head 
and mane, opened eyes and nostrils. 

‘Fond of reading, perhaps?” 

‘Yes. Atleast [—don't mind that so much,” 
returned Miss Podsnap. 

‘¢ M—m—m—m—music.” 

So insinuating was Mrs. Lammle that she got 
half a dozen ms into the word before she got it 
out. 

‘“‘T haven’t nerve to play evenif Icould. Ma 
plays.” 

(At exactly the same canter, and with a cer- 
tain flourishing appearance of doing something, 
Ma did, in fact, occasionally take a rock upon 
the instrument.) 

‘¢ Of course you like dancing ?” 

‘Oh no, I don’t,” said Miss Podsnap. 

‘*No? With your youth and attractions? 
Truly, my dear, you surprise me!” 

“J can’t say,” observed Miss Podsnap, after 
hesitating considerably, and_ stealing several 
timid looks at Mrs. Lammle’s carefully ar- 
ranged face, ‘‘how. I might have liked it if I 
had been a—you won’t mention it, wid/ you?” 

My. dearl-Never2? 

‘¢No, Lam sure you won’t. I can’t say then 
how I should have liked it, if I had been a 
chimney-sweep on May-day.” 

‘¢Gracious!” was the exelamation which 
amazement elicited from Mrs, Lammle. 

‘““There! I knew you’d wonder. But you 
won’t mention it, will you?” 

<‘Upon my word, my love,” said Mrs. Lammle, 
“you make me ten times more desirous, now I 
talk to you, to know you well than I was when I 
sat over yonder looking at you. How I wish we 
could be real friends! Try me as a real friend. 
Come! Don’t fancy me a frumpy old married 
woman, my dear; I was married but’the other 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ys \ iid ah cat CR 7 
x 4 


day, you know; I am dressed as a bride now, — 
you see, About the chimney-sweeps?” 4 

‘sHush! Ma ll hear.” ~ 

«She can’t hear from where she sits.” 

‘‘Don’t you be too sure of that,” said Miss_ 
Podsnap, in a lower voice. ‘* Well, what I 
mean is, that they seem to enjoy it.” 

‘‘ And that perhaps you would have enjoyed 
it, if you had been one of them ?” i 

Miss Podsnap nodded significantly. 

‘“Phen you don’t enjoy it now?” 

‘How is it possible?” said Miss Podsnap. 
“(Oh it is such a dreadful thing! If I was” 
wicked enough—and strong enough—to kill any” 
body, it should be my partner.” ‘ 

This was such an entirely new view of the 
Terpsichorean art as socially practiced, that Mrs. 
Lammile léoked at her young friend in some as-_ 
tonishment. Her young friend sat nervously 
twiddling her fingers in a pinioned attitude, as 
if she were trying to hide her elbows. But this 
latter Utopian object (in short sleeves) always 
appeared to be the great inotiengyye aim of her 
existence. ‘ 

.“¢It sounds horrid, don’t it ?” said Miss Pod- 
snap, with a penitential face. — 

Mrs. Lamunle, not very well knowing what to 
answer, resolved herself into a look of smiling 
encouragement. - 

‘‘ But it is, and it always has been,” pursued 
Miss Podsnap, ‘‘such atrial tome! Iso dread 
being awful. Anditissoawful! No one knows” 
what I suffered at Madame Sauteuse’s, where Ty 
learned to dance and make presentation-courtes” 
sies, and other dreadful things—or at least where. 
they tried to teach me. Ma can do it.” if 

‘¢ At any rate, my love,” said Mrs. Lammle,? 
soothingly, ‘‘ that’s over.” 

‘¢ Yes, it’s over,’ returned Miss Podsnap, ‘‘ but 
there’s nothing gained by that. It’s worse here 
than at Madame Sauteuse’s. Mawas there, and 
Ma’s here; but Pa wasn’t there, and company 
wasn’t there, and there were not real partners 
there. Oh there’s Ma speaking to the man at 
the piano! Oh there’s Ma going up to some- 
body! Oh I know she’s going to bring him to 
me! Ohplease don’t, please don’t, please don’t! 
Oh keep away, keep away, keep away!” ‘These 
pious ejaculations Miss Podsnap uttered with 
her eyes closed, and her head leaning back 
against the wall. iF 

But the Ogre advanced under the pilotage of 
Ma, and Ma said, ‘‘ Georgiana, Mr. Grompus,” 
and the Ogre clutched his victim and bore her off 
to his castle in the top couple. Then the discreet. 
automaton who had surveyed his ground, played. 
a blossomless tuneless ‘‘set,” and sixteen disci- 
ples of Podsnappery went through the figures of 
—1, Getting up at eight and shaving close at 4 
quarter past—2, Breakfasting at nine—3, Going 
to the City at ten—4, Coming home at half past 
five—5, Dining at seven, and the grand chain, 

While these solemnities were in progress, Mr, 
Alfred Lammle (most loving of husbands) ap- 
proached the chair of Mrs. Alfred Lammle (most 
loving of wives), and bending over the back of it, 
trifled for some few seconds with Mrs. Lammle’s 
bracelet. Slightly imgcontrast with this brief 
airy toying, one mit he noticed a certain 
dark attention in . Lammle’s face as she 
said some words with her eyes on Mr. Lammle’ 
waistcoat, and seemed in return to receive some 


a 


‘ 4 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 73 
lesson. But it was all done as a breath passes 

_ from a& mirror. 

And now, the grand chain riveted to the las 
link, the discreet automaton ceased, and the six- 

teen, two and two, took a walk ameng the fur- 
miture. And hereinthé unconsciousness of the 
‘Ogie Grompus was pleasantly conspicuous ; fer 

_ that complacent monster, believing that he was 
“giving Miss Podsnap a treat, prolonged to the 
utmost stretch of possibility a peripatetic account 
of an archery meeting; while his victim, head- 

_ ing the procession of sixteen as it slowly circled 

about, like a revolving funeral, never raised her 
eyes except once to steal a glance at Mrs. Lammie, 
expressive of intense despair. 

At length the procession was dissolved by the 

_ Violent arrival of a nutmeg, before which the 
drawing-room door bounced open as if it were a 

_ €annon-ball ; and while that fragrant article, dis- 
persed through several glasses of colored warm 
water, was going the round of society, Miss Pod- 
snap returned to her seat by her new friend. 

“Oh my goodness,” said Miss Podsnap. 
«That's over! I hope you didn’t look at me.” 

** My dear, why not ?” 

**Qh I know all about myself,” said Miss Pod- 
snap. : 

“YH tell you something J know about you, 
my dear,” returned Mrs. Lammle, in her win- 
ning way, ‘‘and that is, you are most unneces- 
Sarily shy.” ; 

*“Ma ain’t,” said Miss Podsnap. ‘—I de- 
test you! Goalong!” This shot was leveled 
under her breath at the gallant Grompus for be- 
stowing an insinuating smile upon her in passing. 

“Pardon me if I searcely see, my dear Miss 
Podsnap,” Mrs. Lammle was beginning when the 

_ young lady interposed. 

“If we are going to be real friends (and I sup- 
pose we are, for you are the only person who 
ever proposed it) don’t let us be awful. It’s aw- 
ful enough to be Miss Podsnap without being 
called so. Cali me Georgiana.” 

“ Dearest Georgiana,” Mrs. Lammle began 
again. 

“Thank you,” said Miss Podsnap. 

**Dearest Georgiana, pardon me if I scarcely 
‘see, my love, why your mamma’s not being shy 

is a reason why.you should be.” 

**Don't you really see that ?” asked Miss Pod- 
‘Snap, plucking at her fingers in a troubled man- 
ner, and furtively casting her eyes now on Mrs. 
Lammie, now on the ground. ““Then perhaps 
it isn’t?” 

___ “My dearest Georgiana, you defer much too 
‘readily to my poor opinion. Indeed it is not 

_ ven an opinion, darling, for it is only a confes- 
sion of my dullness.” 

_ “Qh you are not dull,” returned Miss Pod- 
‘snap. “fam dull, but you couldn’t have made 
me talk if you were.” 

Some little touch of conscience answering this 
perception of her having gained a purpose, called 
bloom enough into Mrs. Lammle’s face to make 
it look brighter as she sat smiling her best smile 
on her dear Georgiana, and shaking her head 
with an affectionate playfulness. Not that it 
“Meant any thing, but that Georgiana seemed to 
like it. = 

** What I mean is,” pursued Georgiana, “ that 
Ma being so endowed with awfulness, and Pa 
‘being so endowed with awfulness, and there be- 


ing so much awfulness every where—I mean, at 
least, every where where I am—perhaps it makes 
me who am so deficient in awfulness, and fright- 
ened at it—I say it very badly—I don’t know 
whether you can understand what I mean?” 

“* Perfectly, dearest Georgiana!” Mrs. Lam- 
mile was proceeding with every reassuring wile,. 
when the head of that young lady suddenly went. 
back against the wall again, and her eyes closed.. 

“Oh there’s Ma being awful with somebod¢ 
With a glass in his eye! Oh I know she's going: 
to bring him here! Oh don’t bring him, don’t 
bring him! Qh he'll be my partner with his. 
glass in his eye! Oh what shall I do!” This. 
time Georgiana accompanied her ejaculations. 
with taps of her feet upou the floor, and was al- 
together in quite a desperate condition. But. 
there was no escape from the majestic Mrs. Pod-. 
snap’s preduction of an ambling stranger, with, 
one eve sc:ewed up into extinetion and the oth— 
er framed and glazed, who, having looked down, 
out of that organ, as_ifhe descried» Mise Pod-. 
snap at the bettom-of some perpendicular shaft, 
brought her to the surface,. and ambled. off with; 
her. And then the captive at the piane played 
another ‘‘set,” expressive of his mournful aspi-. 
rations after freedom, and. other sixteen went: 
through the former melancholy motions, and the. 
ambler took Miss Podsnap for a furniture walk,, 
as if he had strock out an entirely original con- 
ception. ? 

In the mean time a stray personage of a meek, 
demeanor, who had wandered to the hearth-rug 
and got among the heads of tribes: assembled, 
there in conference with Mr. Podsnap, elimina 
ted Mr. Podsnap’s flash and flourish by a highly 
unpolite remark; no less than a reference to the 
circumstance that some half-dozen people had 
| fately died in the streets of starvation. It was 
clearly ill-timed after dinner. It was not adapt- 
ed to the cheek of the young person. It was not 
in good taste. 

““T don’t believe it," said Mr. Podsnap, pat- 
ting it behind him. 

The meek man was afraid we must take it as 
proved, because there were the Inquests and the 
Registrar’s returns. 

**'Then it was their own fault,” said Mr. Pod- 
snap. 

Veneering and other elders of tribes com- 
mended this way out of it, At once a short eut 
and a broad road. 

The man of meek demeanor intimated that 
truly it would seem, from the facts, as if starva- 
tion had been forced upon the culprits in ques- 
tion—as if, in their wretched manner, they had 
made their weak protests against it—as if they 
would have taken the libegty of staving it off if 
they could—as if they would rather not have 
been starved upon the whole, if perfectly agree- 
able to all parties, 

“There is not,” said Mr. Podsnap, flushing 
angrily, “there is not a country in the world, 
Sir, where so noble a provision is made for the 
poor as in this country.” 

The meek man was quite willing to concede 
that, but perhaps it rendered the matter even 
worse, as showing that there must be something 
appallingly wrong somewhere. 

““Where?” said Mr. Podsnap. 

The meck man hinted, Wouldn’t it be well to 
‘try; very seriously, to find out where? 


m 
Be x gn 


P ¥ 


ae | 


74 ce a OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘¢ Ah!” said Mr. Podsnap. ‘‘ Easy to say 
somewhere ; not so easy to say where! But I 
see what you are driving at. I knew it from 
the first. Centralization. No. Never with my 
consent. Not English.” ) 

An approving murmur arose from the heads 
of tribes; as saying, ‘‘There you have him! 
Hold him !” 

He was not aware (the meek man submitted 
of himself) that he was driving at any ization. 
He had no favorite ization that he knew of. 
But he certainly was more staggered by these 
terrible occurrences than he was by names, of 
howsoever so many syllables. Might he ask, 


was dying of destitution and neglect necessarily 


t 
3 


~ English ?” 


‘“You know what the population of London 
is, I suppose ?” said Mr. Podsnap. 

The meek man supposed he did, but supposed 
that had absolutely nothing to do with it, if its 
laws were well administered. 

‘¢ And you know; at least I hope you know;” 
said Mr. Podsnap, with severity, ‘‘that Provi- 
dence has declared that you shall have the poor 


_ always with you?” 


The meek man also hoped he knew that. 

‘‘T am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Podsnap 
with a portentous air. ‘Iam glad to hear it. 
It will render you cautious how you fly in the 
face of Providence.” 

In reference to that absurd and irreverent 
conventional phrase, the meek man said, for 
which Mr. Podsnap was not responsible, -he the 
meek man had no fear of doing any thing so 
impossible; but— 

But Mr. Podsnap felt that the time had come 
for flushing and flourishing this meek man down 
for good. So he said: 

““f must decline to pursue this painful discus- 
sion. It is not pleasant to my feelings; it is 
repugnant to my feelings. I have said that I do 
not admit these things, JI have also said that 
if they do occur (not that I admit it), the fault 
lies with the sufferers themselves. It is not for 
me’—Mr. Podsnap pointed ‘‘me” forcibly, as 
adding by implication though it may be all very 
well for you—‘‘it is not fur me to impugn the 
workings of Providence. I know better than 
that, I trust, and I have mentioned what the 
intentions of Providence are. Besides,” said 
Mr. Podsnap, flushing high up among his hair- 
brushes, with a strong consciousness of personal 
atfront, “‘the subject is a very disagreeable one. 
I will go so far as to say it is an odious one. It 
is not one to be introduced among our wives and 
young persons, and I—”, He finished with that 
flourish of his arm which added more express- 
ively than any words, And I remove it from the 
face of the earth, % 

' Simultaneously with this quenching of the 
meek man’s ineffectual fire, Georgiana having 
left the ambler up a lane of sofa, in a No Thor- 
oughfare of back drawing-room, to find his own 
way out, came back to Mrs. Lammle, And who 
should be with Mrs. Lammle but Mr. Lammle. 
So fond of her! 

‘« Alfred, my love, here is my friend. Geor- 
giana, dearest girl, you must like my husband 
next to me.” 

Mr. Lammle was preud to be so soon distin- 
guished by this special commendation to Miss 
Podsnap’s favor. But if Mr, Lammle were prone 


\ 


i ai ee 


to be jealous of his dear Sophronia’s friendships, — 
he would be jealous of her feeling toward Miss 
Podsnap. oe 
“« Say Georgiana, darling,” interposed his wife, 
‘¢ Toward — shall 1?— Georgiana.” Mr.3 
Lammle uttered the name, with a delicate curve — 
of his right hand, from hi§ lips outward. For © 
never have I known Sophronia (who is not apt | 
to take sudden likings) so attracted and so cap-” 


‘tivated as she is by—shall I once more ?—Geor- 


giana.” 
The object of this homage sat uneasily enough 

in receipt of it, and then said, turning to Mrs. — 

Lammle, much embarrassed : ; 


‘tT wonder what you like me for! Iam sure” 
I can’t think.” 
‘¢ Dearest Georgiana, for yourself. For your 


difference from all around you.” . 

‘¢Well! That may be. For I think I like 
you for your difference from all around me,” — 
said Georgiana with a smile of relief. 4 

‘¢We must be going with the rest,” observed ~ 
Mrs. Lammle, rising with a show of unwilling-— 
ness, amidst a general dispersal. ‘* We are real 
friends, Georgiana dear ?” ; 

‘* Real.” | 

‘6 Good-night, dear girl!” 

She had established an attraction over the 
shrinking nature upon which her smiling eyes 
were fixed, for Georgiana held her hand while 
she answered in a secret and half-frightened — 
tone: i 

‘‘Don’t forget me when you are gone away. ¥ 
And come again soon. Good-night!” ; 

Charming to see Mr. and Mrs. Lammle tak- 
ing leave so gracefully, and going down the stairs 
so lovingly and sweetly. Not quite so charming ~ 
to see their smiling faces fall and brood as they 
dropped moodily into separate corners of their 
little carriage. But to be sure that was a sight — 
behind the scenes, which nobody saw, and which 
nobody was meant to see. | 
~ Certain big, heavy vehicles, built on the model” 
of the Podsnap plate, took away the heavy arti-_ 
cles of guests weighing ever so much; and the 
less valuable articles got away after their various” 
manners; and the Podsnap plate was put to bed. 
As Mr. Podsnap stood with his back to the draw- 
ing-room fire, pulling up his shirt-collar, like a_ 
veritable cock of the walk literally pluming him-" 
self in the midst of his possessions, nothing would 
have astonished him more than an intimation 
that Miss Podsnap, or any other young person 
properly born and bred, could not be exactly” 
put away like the plate, brought out like the 
plate, polished like the plate, counted, weighed, - 
and valued like the plate. That such a young 
person could possibly have a morbid vacancy im 
the heart for any thing younger than the plate, © 
or less monotonous than the plate; or that such 
a young person’s thoughts could try to scale the 
region bounded on the north, south, east, and 
west, by the plate ; was a monstrous imaginaaaas 
which he would on the spot have flourished into 
space. This perhaps in some sort arose from 
Mr. Podsnap’s blushing young person being, so- 
to speak, all cheek: whereas there is a possibil- 
ity that there may be young persons of a rather 
more complex organilition. i, 

If Mr. Podsnap, pulling up his shirt-collar,. 
could only have heard himself called ‘“‘that fel- 
low” in a certain short dialogue, which passed 


A) 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


between Mr. and Mrs. Lammle in their opposite 
corners of their little carriage, rolling home! 
‘¢ Sophronia, are you awake ?” 
‘* Am I likely to be asleep, Sir?” 
“Very likely, I should think, after that fel- 
‘low’s company. Attend to what I am going to 
| say. ” ‘ 


gaid, have I not? What else have I been doin 
all to-night ?” ne 

“* Attend, I tell you” (in a raised voice), ‘‘ to 
what Iam going to say. Keep close to that idiot 

- girl. . Keep her. under your thumb. You have 
her fast, and you are not to let her go. Do you 
hear ?” 

*‘T hear you.” 

**I foresee there is money to be made out of 
this, besides taking that fellow down a peg. We 

owe each other money, you know.” . 

Mrs. Lammle winced a little at the reminder, 
‘but only enough to shake her scents and essences 
anew into the atmosphere of the little carriage 

as she settled herself afresh in her own dark 
corner. 
——$—$<p-—___—_——— 


CHAPTER XII. 
THE SWEAT OF AN HONEST MAN’S BROW. 


Mr. Mortimer Licutwoop and Mr. Eugene 
_ Wrayburn took a coffee-house dinner together in 
Mr. Lightwood’s office. They had newly agreed 
to set up a joint establishment together. They 
_ had taken a bachelor cottage near Hampton, on 
the brink of the Thames, with a lawn, and a 

* boat-house, and all things fitting, and were to 
float with the stream through the summer and 
the Long Vacation. 

It was not summer yet, but spring; and it was 
not gentle spring ethereally mild, as in Thom- 
son’s Seasons, but nipping spring with an east- 
erly wind, as in Johnson’s, Jackson’s, Dickson’s,. 

Smith’s, and Jones’s Seasons. The grating wind 
‘sawed rather than blew; and as it sawed, the 
saw-dust whigled about the saw-pit. Every street 
/Was a saw-pit, and there were no top-sawyers ; 
/ every passenger was an under-sawyer, with the 
_ Saw-dust blinding him and choking him. 
__ That mysterious paper currency which circu- 
lates*in London when the wind blows, gyrated 
here and there and every where. Whence can 
it come, whither can it go? It hangs on every 
bush, flutters in every tree, is caught flying by 
the electric wires, haunts every inclosure, drinks 
at every pump, cowers at every grating, shud- 
ders upon every plot of grass, seeks rest in vain 
_ behind the legions of iron rails. In Paris, where 
nothing is wasted, costly and luxurious city 
though it be, but where wonderful human ants 
ereep out of holes and pick up every scrap, there 
is no such thing. There, it blows nothing but 
dust. There, sharp eyes and sharp stomachs 
A Eee even the east wind, and get something out 
Of it. 

The wind sawed, and the saw-dust whirled. 
The shrubs wrung their many hands,’ bemoaning 
that they had been over-persuaded by the sun to 
bud; the young wer lone the sparrows re- 
pented of their early marriages, like men and 
women; the colors of the rainbow were dis- 
cernible, not in floral spring, but in the faces 

‘of the people whom it nibbled and pinched. 


v ey 2 ee 


‘“‘T have attended to what you have already | 


ba. 
4 75 


‘And ever the wind sawed, and the saw-dust 
whirled. : 

When the spring evenings are too long and 
light to shut out, and such weather is rife, the 
city which Mr. Podsnap so explanatorily called 
London, Londres, London, is at its worst. Such 
a black shrill city, combining the qualities of a 
smoky house and a scolding wife; such a gritty 
city; such a hopeless city, with no rent in the 
leaden canopy of its sky; such a beleaguered 
city, invested by the great Marsh Forces of Essex 
and Kent. So the two old school-fellows felt 
it to be, as, their dinner done, they turned to- 
ward the fire to smoke. Young Blight was gone, 
the coffee-house waiter was gone, the plates and 


ih 
" 
fy 


dishes were gone, the wine was going—but not 


in the same direction. 

‘**'The wind sounds up here,” quoth Eugene, 
stirring the fire, ‘as if we were keeping a light- 
house. I wish we were.” 

‘‘Don’t_ you think it would bore us?” Light- 
wood asked. 

‘*Not more than any other place. And there 
would be no Circuit to go. But that’s a selfish 
consideration, personal to me.” ei 

‘*¢ And no clients to come,” added Lightwood. 
‘*Not that that’s a selfish consideration at all 
personal to me.” 

“If we were on an isolated rock in a stormy 
sea,” said Eugene, smoking with his eyes on the 


‘fire, “‘ Lady Tippins couldn’t put off to visit us, 


or, better still, might put off and get swamped. 
People couldn’t ask one to wedding breakfasts. 
There would be no Precedents to’ hammer at, 
except the plain-sailing Precedent of keeping the 
light up. It would be exciting to look-out for 
wrecks.” | 

‘* But otherwise,” suggested Lightwood, ‘there 


‘might be a degree of sameness in the life.” 


‘¢T have thought of that also,” said Eugene, 
as if he really had been considering the subject 
in its various bearings with an eye to the busi- 


yness; ‘‘but it would be a defined and limited 
‘monotony. 


It would not extend beyond two 


people. Now, it’s a question with me, Morti- 


mer, whether a monotony defined with that pre- 
cision and limited to that extent might not be 
‘more endurable than the unlimited monotony of 
‘one’s fellow-creatures.”’ 


As Lightwood laughed and passed the wine 
he remarked, ‘‘ We shall have an opportunity, in 
our boating summer, of trying the question.” 

‘¢ Animperfect one,” Eugene acquiesced, with 
a sigh, ‘‘but so we shall. I hope we may not 
prove too much for one another.” 

‘*Now, regarding your respected father,” said 
Lightwood, bringing him to a subject.they had 
expressly appointed to discuss: always the most 
slippery eel of eels of subjects to lay hold of. 

‘*Yes, regarding my respected -fathen,”’ as- 
sented Eugene, settling himself in his arm-chair, 
‘¢T would rather have approached my respected 
father by candle-light, as a theme requiring a 
little artificial brilliancy; but we will take him 
by twilight, enlivened with a glow of Wallsend.” 

He stirred the fire again as he spoke, and hay- 
ing made it blaze, resumed : 

‘¢ My respected father has found, down in the 


parental neighborhood, a wife for his pot-gener=-. 


ally-respected son.” 
‘* With some money, of course?” . 
‘‘ With some money, of course, or he would 


ae 


“ : 
76 


not have found her. My respected father—let 
me shorten the dutiful tautology by substituting 
in future M. R. F., which sounds military, and 
rather like the Duke of Wellington.” 
‘What an absurd fellow you are, Eugene!” 
**Not at all, I assure you. M. R. F. having 
always in the clearest manner provided (as he 
calls it) for his children by prearranging from | 
the hour of the birth of each, and sometimes | 
from an earlier period, what the devoted : 


| 
{ 
{ 
i 
i 
| 
H 


victim’s calling and course in life should be, M. 
R. F. prearranged for myself that I was to be 
the barrister I am (with the slight addition of 
an enormous practice, which has not accrued), 
and also the married man I am not.” 

‘*'The first you have often told me.” 

**'The first I have often told you. Consider- 
ing myself sufficiently incongruous on my legal , 
eminence, I have until now suppressed my do- 
mestic destiny. You know M. R. F., but not 
as well as Ido. If you knew him as well as I 
do he would amuse you.” 

‘*Filially spoken, Eugene !” 

‘* Perfectly so, believe me; and with every 
sentiment of affectionate deference toward M. 
R. F. But if he amuses me, I can't help it. 
When my eldest brother was born, of course the 
rest of us knew (I mean the rest of us would 
have known, if we had been in existence) that 
he was heir to the Family Embarrassments— 
we call it before company the Family Estate. 
But when my second brother was going to be 
born by-and-by, ‘this,’ says M. R. F., ‘is a lit- 
tle pillar of the church.’ Was born, and be- 
came a pillar of the church; a very shaky one. 
My third brother. appeared, considerably in ad- 
vance of his engagement to my mother; but M. 
R. F., not at all put out by surprise, instantly 
declared him a Circumnavigator. Was pitch- 
forked into the Navy, but has not cireumnavi- 
gated. I announced myself, and was disposed 
of with the highly satisfactory results embodied | 
before you. When my younger brother was half 
an hour old, it was settled by M. R. F. that he 
should have a mechanical genius. And so on. 
Therefore I say that M. R. F. amuses me.” 

“Touching the lady, Eugene.” 

“There M. R. F. ceases to be amusing, be- 
cause my intentions are opposed to touching the 
lady.” 

*‘Do you know her ?” 

“Not in the least.” 

‘‘Hadn’t you better see her?” 

“My dear Mortimer, you have studied my 
character. Could I possibly go down there 
labeled ‘Ervigrste. ON view,’ and meet the 
lady similarly labeled? Any thing to carry 
out M. R. F.’s arrangements, I am sure, with the 
greatest pleasure—except matrimony. Could I 
possibly support it? I, so soon bored, so con- 
stantly, so fatally ?” 

‘‘But you are not a consistent fellow, Eu- 
gene.” 

‘‘In susceptibility to boredom,” returned that , 
worthy, ‘‘I assure 
of mankind.” 

‘Why, it was but now that you were dwell- 
ing on the advantages of a monotony of two.” 

‘*Jn adight-house. Do me the justice to re- 
member the condition. In a light-house.” 

Mortimer laughed again, and Eugene, having 
laughed too for the first time, as if he found him- 


you I am the most consistent 


ee AL Lisi, 
: mn: 
a 
ch 
Pe 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — Bie 


self on reflection rather entertaining, relapsed 
into his usual gloom, and drowsily said, as he 
enjoyed his cigar, ‘‘ No, there is no help for it; 
one of the prophetic deliveries of M. R. F. must 
forever remain unfulfilled. With every disposi- 
tion to oblige him, he must submit to a failure.” ~ 

It had grown darker as they talked, and the © 
wind was sawing and the saw-dust was whirling © 
outside paler windows, The underlying church. ~ 
yard was already settling into deep dim shade, 
and the shade was creeping up to the house- 
tops among which they sat. “As if,” said Eu. 
gene, ‘‘as if the church-yard ghosts were rising.” 

He had walked to the window with his cigar 
in his mouth, to exalt its flavor by comparing — 
the fireside with the outside, when he stopped — 
midway on his return to his arm-chair, and 
said: 

‘* Apparently one of the ghosts has lost its 
way, and dropped in to be directed. Look at 
this phantom !” 

Lightwood, whose back was toward the door, 
turned his head, and there, in the darkness of 
the entry, stood a something in the likeness of a 
man: to whom he addressed the not irrelevant 
inquiry, ‘‘ Who the devil are you?” i) 

‘‘T ask your pardons, Governors,” replied the 
ghost, in a hoarse double-barreled whisper, *‘ but 
might either on you be Lawyer Lightwood ?” 

‘“ What do yow mean by not knocking at the 
door ?’”’? demanded Mortimer. 

‘*T ask your pardons, Governors,” replied the — 
ghost, as before, ‘‘but probable you was not — 
aware your door stood open.” 5 

‘*What do you want?” 4 

Hereunto the ghost again hoarsely replied, in 
its double-barreled manner, ‘‘I ask your par- ° 
dons, Governors, but might one on you be Law- 
yer Lightwood ?” 

‘*Oneof us is,” said the owner of that name. 

“All right, Governors Both,” returned the 
ghost, carefully closing the room door; ‘*’tickler 
business.” 

Mortimer lighted the candles. They showed 
the visitor to be an ill-looking ysitor with a_ 
squinting leer, who, as he spoke, fumbled at an 
old sodden fur cap, formless and mangy, that — 
looked like a furry animal, dog or cat, puppy or 
kitten, drowned and decaying. 

‘“Now,” said Mortimer, ‘‘ what is it ?” 

‘¢ Governors Both,” returned the man, in what 
he meant to be a wheedling tone, ‘‘ which on you 
might be Lawyer Lightwood ?” 

pee tO: Mea 

‘*Lawyer Lightwood,” ducking at him with 
a servile air, ‘‘I am a man as gets my living, 
and as seeks to get my living, by the sweat of 
my brow. Not to risk being done out of the 
sweat of my brow by any chances, I should 
wish, afore going further, to be swore in.” 

‘*T am not a swearer in of people, man.” i 

The visitor, clearly any thing but reliant on — 
this assurance Joggedly muttered ‘‘ Alfred Da- — 
vid.” - 

‘Ts that your name?” asked Lightwood. 

‘‘My name?” returned the man. ‘No; I 
want to take a Alfred David.” ; 

(Which Eugene, smoking and contemplating — 
him, interpreted as meaning Affidavit.) 

‘“*T tell you, my good fellow,” said Lightwood, _ 
with his indolent laugh, ‘‘ that ] have nothing to 
do with swearing.” i 


eT 


* Ww YAO ite yay y ce 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Ve can swear at you,” Eugene explained ; 
‘‘andsocanI. But we can’t do more for you.” 

Much discomfited by this information, the vis- 
itor turned the drowned dog or cat, puppy or kit- 
ten, about and about, and looked from one of 
the Governors Both to the other of the Govern- 
ors Both, while he deeply considered within him- 
self. At length he decided: 

‘Then I must be took down.” 

“Where?” asked Lightwood. 

‘‘Heres” said the man.’ ‘In pen and ink.” 

‘<First, let us know what your business is 
about.” 

‘«Jt’s about,” ‘said the man, taking a step for- 
ward, dropping his hoarse voice, and shading it 
with his hand, ‘‘it’s about from five to ten thou- 
sand pound reward. That’s what it’s about. 
It’s about Murder. That's what it’s about.” 

““Come nearer the table. Sit down. Will 
you have a glass of wine?” 

“Yes, I will,” said the man; ‘‘and I don’t 
deceive you, Governors.” 

It was given him. Making a stiff arm to the 
elbow, he poured the wine into his mouth, tilted 
it into his right cheek, as saying, ‘‘ What do you 
think of it?” tilted it into his left cheek, as say- 

ing, ‘‘ What do you think of it?” jerked it into 
his stomach, as saying, ‘* What do you think of 
it?” To conelude, smacked his lips, as if all 
three replied, ‘‘ We think well of it.” 

‘¢ Will you have another ?” 

‘¢Yes, I will,” he repeated, ‘‘and I don’t de- 
ceive you, Governors.’”’ And also repeated the 
other proceedings. 

‘¢Now,” began Lightwood, ‘‘what’s your 
name ?” 

‘Why, there you’re rather fast, Lawyer Light- 
wood,” he replied, in a remonstrant manner. 
Don’t you see, Lawyer Lightwood? There 
you're a little bit fast. I’m going to earn from 
five to ten thousand pound by the sweat of my 
brow; and as a poor man doing justice to the 
sweat of my brow, is it likely I can afford to part 
with so much as my name without its being took 
down ?” 

Deferring to the man’s sense of the binding 
powers of pen and ink and paper, Lightwood 
nodded acceptance of l:ugene’s nodded proposal 
to take those spells in hand. Eugene, bringing 
them to the table, sat down as clerk or notary. 

“Now,” said Lightwood, ‘‘what’s your name?” 

But further precaution was still due to the 
sweat of this honest fellow’s brow. 

““T should wish, Lawyer Lightwood,” he stip- 
ulated, ‘‘to have that 'T’other Governor as my 

witness that what I said I said. Consequent, 
will the T’other Governor be so good as chuck 
me his name and where he lives?” 

Eugene, cigar in mouth and pen in hand, 
tossed him his card. After spelling it out slow- 
ly, the man made it into a little roll, and tied it 

up in an end of his neckerchief still more slowly. 
_ “Now,” said Lightwood, for the third time, 
**if you have quite completed your various prep- 
‘arations, my friend, and have fully ascertained 
that your spirits are cool and not in any way 
hurried, what’s your name?” 

*¢ Roger Riderhood.” 

** Dwelling-place ?” 

** Lime’us Hole.” 

**Calling or occupation ?” 

Not quite so glib with this answer as with the 


77 


previous two, Mr. Riderhood gave in the defini- 
tion, ‘* Waterside character.” 

‘‘Any thing against you?” Eugene quietly 
put in, as he wrote. =» 

Rather balked, Mr. Riderhood evasively re- 
marked, with an innocent air, that he believed 
the T’other Governor had asked him summa’t. 

‘‘Tver in trouble?” said Eugene. 

“Once.” (Might happen to any man, Mr. 
Riderhood added incidentally.) 

“On suspicion of— ?” 

‘¢Qf seaman’s pocket,” said Mr. Riderhood. 
‘¢Whereby I was in reality the man’s best friend, 
and tried to take care of him.” 

‘‘ With the sweat of your brow?” asked En- 
gene. 

‘< Till it poured down like rain,” said Roger 
Riderhood. j 

Eugene leaned back in his chair, and smoked 
with his eyes negligently turned on the inform- 
er, and his pen ready to reduce him to more 
writing. Lightwood also smoked, with his eyes 
negligently turned on the informer. 

‘* Now let me be took down again,” said Ri- 
derhood, when he had turned the drowned cap 
over and under, and had brushed it the wrong 
way (if it had a right way) with his sleeve. ‘‘T 
give information that the man that done the 
Harmon Murder is Gaffer Hexam, the man that 
found the body. The hand of Jesse Hexam, 
commonly called Gaffer on the river and along 
shore, is the hand that done that deed. His 
hand, and no other.” 

The two friends glanced at one another with 
more serious faces than they had shown yet. 

‘¢Tell us on what grounds you make this ac- 
cusation,’’ said Mortimer Lightwood. 

‘On the grounds,” answered Riderhood, wip- 
ing his face with his sleeve, ‘‘that I was Gaffer’s 
pardner, and suspected of him many a long day 
and many a dark night. On the grounds that I 
knowed his ways. On the grounds that I broke 
the pardnership because I see the danger ; which 
I warn you his daughter may tell you another 
story about that, for any think I can say, but 
you know what it’ll be worth, for she’d tell you 
lies, the world round and the heavens broad, to 
save her father. On the grounds that it’s wel] un- 
derstood along the caus’ays and the stairs that he 
done it. On the grounds that he’s fell off from, 
because he done it. On the grounds that I will 
swear he done it. On the grounds that you may 
take me where you will, and get me sworn to it. 
ZT don’t want to back out of the consequences. I 
have made up my mind. Take me any wheres.” 

‘¢ All this is nothing,” said Lightwood. 

‘‘ Nothing ?” repeated Riderhood, indignant- 
ly and amazedly. 

‘‘Merely nothing. It goes to no more than 
that you suspect this man of the crime. You 
may do so with some reason, or you may do so 
with no reason, but he can not be convicted on 
your suspicion.” 

‘Haven't I said—I appeal to the Tother 
Governor as my witness—haven’t I said from 
the first minute that I opened my mouth in this 
here world-without-end-everlasting chair” (he 
evidently used that form of words as next in 
force to an affidavit), ‘‘that I was willing to 
swear thatthe done it? Haven't I said, Take 
me and get me sworn to it? Don’t I say so © 
now? You won't deny it, Lawyer Lightwood ?” - 


78 


“Surely not; but you only offer to swear to 
your suspicion, and I tell you it is not enough 
to swear to your suspicion.” 

‘¢Not enough, ain’t it, Lawyer Lightwood ?” 
he cautiously demanded. 

‘¢ Positively not.” 

<¢And did I say it was enough? Now, I ap- 
peal to the T’other Governor. Now, fair! Did 
I say so?” 

‘He certainly has not said that he had no 
more to tell,”’ Eugene observed in a low voice, 
without looking at him, ‘‘ whatever he seemed 
to imply.” . 

‘¢ Hah!” cried the informer, triumphantly per- 
ceiving that the remark was generally in his 
favor, though apparently not closely understand- 
ing it. ‘‘Fort’nate for me I had a witness!” 

‘©Go on then,” said Lightwood. ‘‘ Say out 
what you have to say. No after-thought.” 

‘¢Let me be took down then!” cried the in- 
former, eagerly and anxiously. ‘‘ Let me be 
took down, for by George and the Draggin I’m 
a coming to it now! Don’t do nothing to keep 
back from a honest man the fruits of the sweat 
of his brow! I give information, then, that he 
told me that he done it. Is that enough ?” 

‘‘Take care what you say, my friend,” re- 
turned Mortimer. 

‘‘Lawyer Lightwood, take care, you, what I 
say; for I judge you'll be answerable for foller- 
ing it up!” Then, slowly and emphatically 
beating it all out with his open right hand on 
the palm of his left; ‘*1, Roger Riderhood, Lime- 
’as Hole, Waterside character, tell you, Law- 
yer Lightwood, that the man Jesse Hexam, 
commonly called upon the river, and along- 
shore Gaffer, told me that he done the deed. 
What’s more, he told me with his own lips that 
he done the deed. What’s more, he said that 
he done the deed. And [ll swear it!” 

“Where did he tell you so?” 

“ Outside,” replied Riderhood, always beating 
it out, with his head determinedly set askew, and 
his eyes watchfully dividing their attention be- 
tween his two auditors, ‘outside the door of the 
Six Jolly Fellowships, towards a quarter arter 
twelve at midnight—but I will not in my con- 
science undertake to swear to so fine a matter as 
five minutes—on the night when he picked up 
the body. ‘The Six Jolly Fellowships stands on 
the spot still. The Six Jolly Fellowships won't 
run away. If it turns out that’ he warn’t at the 
Six Jolly Fellowships that night at midnight, 
I’m a liar.” 

“What did he gay?” , 

<‘T’ll tell you (take me down, T’other Gov- 
ernor, I ask no better). He come out first; I 
come out last. I might be a minute arter him ; 
I might be half a minute, I might be a quarter 
of aminute; I can not swear to that, and there- 
fore I won’t. That’s knowing the obligations 
of a Alfred David, ain’t it?” 

£50 ony.7! 

“JT found him a waiting to speak to me. He 
says to me, ‘Rogue Riderhood’—for that’s the 
name I’m mostly called by—not for any mean- 
ing in it, for meaning it has none, but because 
of its being similar to Roger.” 

‘* Never mind that.” 

‘““*Scuse me, Lawyer Lightwood, it’s a part 
of the truth, and as such I do mind it, and I 
must mind it and I will mind it. ‘Rogue Ri- 


¢ 


- OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


derhood,’ he says, ‘words passed betwixt us on — 
the river to-night.” Which they had; ask his — 
daughter! ‘I threatened you,’ he say, ‘to chop 
you over the fingers with my boat’s stretcher, or 
tnke a aim at your brains with my boat-hook. 

1 did so on accounts of your looking too hard — 
at what I had in tow, as if you was suspicious, — 
and on accounts of your holding on to the gun- ~ 
wale of my boat.’ I says to him, ‘Gaffez, I~ 
know it.’ He says to me, ‘Rogue Riderhood, 
you are aman ina dozen’—I think he-said ina ~ 
score, but of that I am not positive, so take the 
lowest figure, for precious be the obligations of 
a Alfred David. ‘And,’ he says, ‘when your 
fellow-men is up, be it their lives or be it their — 
watches, sharp is ever the word with you. Had 
you suspicions?’ I says, ‘Gaffer, I had; and 7 
what’s more, I have.’ He falls a shaking, and ~ 
he says ‘Of what?’ I says, ‘Of foul play.” He — 
falls a shaking worse, and he says, ‘There was 
foul play then. I done it for his money. Don’t © 
betray me!’ Those were the words as ever he 
used.”’ ; 

There was a silence broken only by the fall of 
the ashes in the grate. An opportunity which 
the informer improved -by smearing himself all 
over the head and neck and face with his — 
drowned cap, and not at all improying his own 
appearance. . 

‘¢What more?” asked Lightwood. 

‘Of him, d’ye mean, Lawyer Lightwood ?” 

‘¢ Of ‘any thing to the purpose.” P 

‘Now, I’m blest if I understand you, Gov- © 
ernors Both,’ said the informer, in a creeping i 
manner: propitiating both, though only one had ~ 
spoken. ‘* What?  <Ain’t that enough ?” 

‘Did you ask him how he did it, where he 
did it, when he did it ?” 

‘‘HWar be it from me, Lawyer Lightwood! I 
was so troubled in mind, that I weuldn’t have 
knowed more, no, not for the sum as { expect to 
eam from you by the sweat of my brow, twice 
told! I had put an end to the pardnership. I 
had cut the connection. I couldn’t undo what 
was done; and when he begs and prays, ‘ Old 
pardner, on my knees, don’t split upon me!’ I 
only makes answer, ‘ Never speak another word f 
to Roger Riderhood, nor look him in the face! 4 
and I shuns that man.” ‘ 

Having given these words a swing to make ~ 
them mount the higher-and go the further, Rogue ~ 
Riderhood poured himself out another glass of © 
wine unbidden, and seemed to chew it, as, with ~ 
the half-emptied glass in his hand, he stared at — 


tthe candles. a 


Mortimer glanced at Eugene, but Eugene sat 
glowering at his paper, and would give him no 
responsive glance. Mortimer again turned to — 
the informer, to whom he said: a 

‘¢You have been troubled in your mind a long © 
time, man?” ‘e 

Giving his wine a final chew, and swallowing — 
it, the informer answered in a single word: 

‘¢ Tages !” 4 

“¢ When all that stir was made, when the Goll 
ernment reward was offered, when the police 
were on the alert, when the whole country rang 
with the crime!” said Mortimer, impatiently. 

“Hah!” Mr. Riderhood very slowly and 
hoarsely chimed in, with several retrospective 
nods of his head. ‘* Warn’t I troubled in my 
mind then!” a 


hs 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


«¢ When conjecture ran wild, when the most 
extravagant suspicions were afloat, when half a 
dozen innocent people might have been laid by 
the heels any hour in the day!” said Mortimer, 
almost warming, 


* Hah!” Mr. Riderhood chimed in, as be- 


fore. ‘‘Warn’t I troubled in my mind through 
it all!” 

“But he hadn't,” said Eugene, drawing a 
‘Jady’s head upon his writing-paper, and touch- 
ing it at intervals, ‘‘the opportunity then of 
earning so much money, you see.” ~~ 

*¢ The 'I’other Governor hits the nail, Lawyer 
_Lightwood! It was that as turned me. I had 
many times and again struggled to relieve my- 
self of the trouble on my mind, but I couldn't 
get it off. I had once very nigh got it off to 
Miss Abbey Potterson which keeps the Six Jolly 
Fellowships—there is the ’ouse, it won’t run 
away—there lives the lady, she ain’t likely to be 
struck dead afore you get there-—ask her !—but 
I couldn’t do it. At last, out.comes the new 
bill with your own lawful name, Lawyer Light- 
wood, printed to it, and then I asks the question 
of my own intellects, Am I to have this trouble 
_ on my mind forever? Am I never to throw it 
off? Am I always to think more of Gaffer than 
of my own self? If he’s got a daughter, ain’t £ 
got a daughter ?” | 

‘¢ And echo answered— ?” Eugene suggested. 

‘You have,” said Mr. Riderhood, in a firm 
tone. ; 
_ ‘Incidentally mentioning, at the same time, 

her age?” inquired Eugene. 
_ “Yes, governor. ‘Two-and-twenty last Octo- 
ber. And then I put it to myself, ‘Regarding 
the money. It is a pot of money.’ For it wa 
pot,” said Mr. Riderhood, with candor, ‘‘and 
why deny it?” 

‘¢Hearg” from Eugene, as he touched his 
drawing. 
. ***It is a pot of money; but is it a sin for a 
laboring man that moistens every crust of bread 
he earns with his tears—or if not with them, 
with the colds he catches in his head—is it a sin 


for that man to earn it? Say there is any thing | 


_ again earning it. This I put to myself strong, 
as in duty bound; ‘how can it be said without 
blaming Lawyer Lightwood for offering it to be 
earned?’ And was it for me to blame Lawyer 
Lightwood? No.” 

**No,”’ said Eugene. 

‘Certainly not, Governor,” Mr. Riderhood 
acquiesced. ‘‘So I made up my mind to get 
my trouble off my mind, and to earn by the sweat 
sf my brow what was held out to me. And 
what’s more,” he added, suddenly turning blood- 
thirsty, ‘‘ I mean to have it! And now I tell you, 
once and away, Lawyer Lightwood, that Jesse 
Hexam, commonly called Gaffer, his hand and 
no other, done the deed, on his own confession 
tome. And [I give him up to you, and I want 
him took. This night!” 

After another silence, broken only by the fall 
of the ashes in the grate, which attracted the in- 
former’s attention as if it were the chinking of 
money, Mortimer Lightwood leaned over ,his 
friend, and said, in a whisper: (3 

**T suppose I must go with this fellow to our 
imperturbable friend at the police-station.” 

‘*T suppose,” said Eugene, ‘‘ there is no help 
~ for it.” 


79 


‘Do you believe him ?” 


‘¢T believe him to be 4 thorough rascal. But “ 


he may tell the truth for his own purpose, and 
for this occasion only.” 4 

“¢Tt doesn’t look like it.” 

‘¢ He doesn’t,” said Eugene. ‘‘ But neither 
is his late partner, whom he denounces, a pre- 
possessing person. The firm are cut-throat Shep- 
herds both, in appearance. I should like to ask 
him one thing.” 

The subject of this conference sat leering at 
the ashes, trying with all his might to overhear 
what was said, but feigning abstraction as the 
‘Governors Both” glanced at him. 

‘* You mentioned (twice, I think) a daughter 
of this Hexam’s,” said Eugene, aloud. “You 
don’t mean to imply that she had any guilty 
knowledge of the crime?” 

The honest man, after considering—perhaps 
considering how his answer might affect the 
fruits of the sweat of his brow—replied, unre- 
servedly, ‘‘No, I don’t.” 

‘¢ And you implicate no other person ?” 

“Tt ain’t what I implicate, it’s what Gaffer 
implicated,” was the dogged and determined an- 
swer. ‘I don’t pretend to know more than that 
his words to me was, ‘I done it.’ Those was 
his words.” 

‘‘T must see this out, Mortimer,” whispered 
Eugene, rising. ‘‘ How shall we go?” 

‘¢Let us walk,” whispered Lightwood, “and 
give this fellow time to think of it.” 

Having exchanged the question and answer, 
they prepared themselves for going out, and Mr. 
Riderhood rose. While extinguishing the can- 
dles, Lightwood, quite as a matter of course, took 
up the glass from which that honest gentleman 
had drunk, and coolly tossed it under the grate, 


99 


| where it fell shivering into fragments. 


‘¢ Now, if you will take the lead,” said Light- 


Se ae 


wood, ‘‘Mr. Wrayburn and I will follow. You — 


know where to go, I suppose ?”’ 


‘*T suppose I do, Lawyer Lightwood.” 

‘‘'Take the lead, then.” 

The water-side character pulled his drowned 
cap over his ears with both hands, and making 
himself more round-shouldered than nature had 
made him, by the sullen and persistent slouch 
with which he went, went down the stairs, round 
by the Temple Church, across the Temple into 
Whitefriars, and so on by the water-side streets. 

‘‘Look at his hang-dog air,” said Lightwood, 
following. 

‘‘Tt strikes me rather as a hang-man air,” re- 
turned Eugene. ‘‘He has undeniable inten- 
tions that way.” 

They said little else as they followed. He 
went on before them as an ugly Fate might have 
done, and they kept him in view, and would have 
been glad enough to Jose sight of him. But on 
he went before them, always at the same dis- 
tance, and the same rate. Aslant against the 
hard implacable weather and the rough wind, 
he was no more to be driven back than hurried 
forward, but held on like an advancing Destiny. 
There came, when they were about midway on 
their journey, a heavy rush of hail, which in a 
few minutes pelted the streets clear, and whiten- 
ed them. It made no difference to him. A 
man’s life being to be taken and the price of it 
got, the hailstones to arrest the purpose must 
lie larger and deeper than those. He crushed 


80 


through them, leaving marks im the fast-melting 
siush that were mere shapeless holes; one might 
have fancied, following, that the very fashion of 
humanity had departed from his feet. 

The blast went by, and the moon contended 
with the fast-flying clouds, and the wild disor- 
der reigning up there made the pitiful tumults 
in the strects of mo account. It was not that 
the wind swept all the brawlers into places of 
shelter, as it had swept the hail still lingering 
im heaps wherever there was refuge for it; but 
that it seemed as if the streets were absorbed by 
the sky, and the night were al? in the air. 

**If he has had time to think of it,” said Eu- 


pene, *‘he has not had time to think better of it | 
There is: 
no sign of drawing back in him; and as I recol- 
ject this place, we must be close upon the corner | 


—or differently of it, if that’s better. 


where we alighted that night.” 


In fact, a few abrapt turns brought them to! 


the river-side, where they had slipped about 
among the stones, and where they now slipped 
more ; the wind coming against them in slants 
and flaws, across the tide and the windings of 
the river, in a furious way. With that habit 
of getting under the lee of any shelter which 
water-side characters acquire, the water-side 
character at present im question led the way to 
the lee side of the Six Jolly Fellewship Porters 
before he spoke. 

““Yook round here, Lawyer Lightwood, at 
them red curtains. It’s the Fellowships, the 
Youse as I told you wouldn’t run away. And 
has it ran away ?” 

Not showmg himself much impressed by this 
remarkable confirmation of the informer’s evi- 
dence, Lightwood inquired what other business 
they had there ? 

‘‘I wished you to see the Fellowships for 
yourself, Lawyer Lightwood, that you might 
judge whether Pm a liar; and now I'll see 
Gaffer’s window for myself, that we may know 
whether he’s at home.” 

With that he crept away. 

“Fie’lt come back, I suppose?” murmured 
Lightwood. 

“Ay! and go through with it,” murmured 
Eugene. 

He came back after a very short interval in- 
deed. 
_ **Gaffer’s out, and his boat’s out. His daugh- 
ter’s at home, sitting a-looking at the fire. 
there’s some supper getting ready, so Gaffer’s 
expected. i can find what move he’s upon, 
easy enough, presently.” 

‘Then he beckoned and led the way again, and 
they came to the police-station, still as clean and 
cool and steady as before, saving that the flame 
of its lamp—being but a lamp-flame, and only 
attached to the Force as an outsider—flickered 
in the wind. 

Also, within doors, Mr. Inspector was at his 
studies as of yore. He recognized the friends 
the instant. thev reappeared, but their reappear. 
ance had no effect on his composure. Not even 
the circumstance that Riderhood was their con- 
ductor moved him, otherwise than that as he 
took a dip of ink he seemed, by a settlement of 
his chin in his stock, to propound to that per- 
sonage, without looking at him, the question, 
** What have yeu been up to last 2” 

Mortimer Lightwood asked him, would he be 


tyou. 


But } 


him to a satisfactory criminal total. 


self and get the money. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND | ord > 


so good as Jook at those notes? Handing him — 
Kugene’s. oe 

Having read the first few lines, Mr. Inspector 
mounted to that (for him) extraordinary pitch 
of emotion that he said, ‘‘ Does either of you 
two gentlemen happen to have a pinch of snuff 
about him?” Finding that neither had, he did 
quite as well without it, and read on. 

‘‘Have you heard these read?” he then de- 
manded of the honest man. 

‘*No,’’ said Riderhood. | 

‘¢'Then you had better hear them.” And so 
read them aloud in an official manner. 

** Are these notes correct, now,:as to the in- 
formation you bring here and the evidence you 
mean to give?” he asked, when he had finished 
reading, 

‘*They are. They are as correct,” returned 
Mr. Riderhood, *‘as ] am. I can’t say more 
than that for ’em.” 

‘* Jl} take this man myself, Sir,” said Mr. In- 
spector to Lightwood. ‘Then to Riderhood, ‘‘ Is 
he athome? Where is he? What’s he doing? 


| You have made it your business to know all about 


him, no doubt.” 
Riderhood said what he did know, and prom- _ 
ised to find out in a few minutes what he didn’t 
know. . MES 
‘¢ Stop,” said Mr. Inspector; ‘‘not till I tell 
We mustn’t look like business. Would 
you two gentlemen object to making a pretense 
of taking a glass of something in my company 


}at the Fellowships? Well-conducted house, and ; 


highly respectable landlady.” é 
‘They replied that they would be happy te ~ 
substitute a reality for the pretense, which, in 
the main, appeared to be as one with Mr. In- 
spector’s meaning. 
‘“Very good,” said he, taking his hat from 
its peg, and putting a pair of handcuffs in his 
pocket as if they were his gloves. ‘Reserve!’ 
Reserve saluted. ‘* You know where to find 
me?” Reserve again saluted. -‘¢ Riderhood, 
when you have found out concerning his com- 
ing home, come round to the window of Cosy, 
tap twice at it, and wait forme. Now, gentle- 
men?’ 
As the three went out together, and Riderhood 
slouched off from under the trembling lamp his 
separate way, Lightwood asked the officer what 
he thought of this? 
Mr. Inspector replied, with due generality and 
reticence, that it was always more likely that a 
man had done a bad thing than that he hadn’t. 
That he himself had several times ‘“‘reckoned _ 
up” Gaffer, but had never been able to bring 
That if this 
story was true, it was only in part true. That 
the two men, very shy characters, would have _ 
been jointly and pretty equally ‘‘in it ;” but that 
this man had ‘‘spotted” the other, to save him- 


hes 
« 


oT ge aoe a 


‘And I think,’”” added Mr. Inspector, in con- 
clusion, ‘‘that if all goes well with him, he’s in _ 
a tolerable way of getting it. But as this is the: 
Fellowships, gentlemen, where the Kghts are, I 
recommend dropping the subject. You can’tdo — 
better than be interested in some lime works — 
any where down about Northfleet, and doubtful 
whether some of your lime don’t get into bad 
company, as it comes up in barges.” - 

‘You hear, Kugene ?” said Lightwood, over — 


oh a aa 


his shoulder. ‘‘You are deeply interested in 
lime.” | 

‘¢ Without lime,” returned that unmoved bar- 
rister-at-law, ‘‘my existence would be unillu- 
minated by a ray of hope.” 


—_—_—_<——_— 


CHAPTER XIIL 
TRACKING THE BIRD OF PREY. 


Tar two lime merchants, with their escort, 
entered the dominions of Miss Abbey Potterson, 
to whom their escort (presenting them and their 
pretended business over the half-door of the bar 
in a confidential way) preferred his figurative 
request that ‘‘a mouthful of fire” might be 
lighted in Cosy. Always well disposed to assist 
the constituted authorities, Miss Abbey bade 
Bob Ghiddery attend the gentlemen to that re- 
treat, and promptly enliven it with fire and gas- 
‘light. Of this commission the bare-armed Bob, 
leading the way with a flaming wisp of paper, so 
speedily acquitted himself, that Cosy seemed to 
leap out of a dark sleep and embrace them warm- 
ly the moment they passed the lintels of its hos- 
pitable door. . 

‘¢ They burn sherry very well here,” said Mr. 
Inspector, asa piece of localintelligence. ‘‘ Per- 
haps you gentlemen might like a bottle?” 

The answer being By all means, Bob Gliddery 
received his instructions from Mr. Inspector, and 
departed in a becoming state of alacrity engen- 
dered by reverence for the majesty of the law. 

‘¢Tt?s a certain fact,” said Mr. Inspector, ‘‘ that 
this man we have received our information from,” 
indicating Riderhood with his thumb over his 
shoulder, ‘‘has for some time past given the 
other man a bad name arising out of your lime 
barges, and that the other man has been avoided 
in consequence. I don’t say what it means or 
proves, but it’s a certain fact. J had it first from 
one of the opposite sex of my acquaintance,” 
vaguely indicating Miss Abbey with his thumb 
over his shoulder, ‘‘down away at a distance, 
over yonder.” — 

Then probably Mr. Inspector was not quite 
unprepared for their visit that evening? Light- 
wood hinted. 

«¢ Well you see,” said Mr. Inspector, ‘it was 
a question of making a move. It’s of no use 
moving if you don’t know what your move is. 
You had better by far keep still. In the matter 
of this lime, I certainly had an idea that it might 
Tie between the two men; I always had that 
idea. Still I was forced to wait for a start, and 
I wasn’t so lucky as to get a start. This man 
that we have received our information from has 
got a start, and if he don’t meet with a check he 
‘may make the running and come in first. There 
may turn out to be something considerable for 
him that comes in second, and I don’t mention 
who may or who may not try for that place. 
There’s duty to do, and I shall do it, under any 
circumstances, to the best of my judgment and 
ability.” 

“Speaking as a shipper of lime—” began 
Eugene. i 

‘¢ Which no man has a better right to do than 
yourself, you know,” said’ Mr. Inspector. 

“¢T hope not,”’ said Engene; ‘‘my father hay- 
ing been a shipper of lime ‘before me, 


81 


grandfather-before-him-—in fact we having been 
a family immersed to the crowns of our heads in 
lime during several generations—I beg to ob- 
serve that if this missing lime could be got hold 
of without any young female relative of any dis- 
tinguished gentleman engaged in the lime trade 
(which I cherish next to my life) being present, 
I think it might be a more agreeable proceeding 
to the assisting by-standers, that is to say, lime- 
burners.” 

“¢T also,” said Lightwood, pushing his friend 
aside with a laugh, ‘‘should much prefer that.” 

‘‘It shall be done, gentlemen, if it can be done 
conveniently,” said Mr. Inspector, with coolness. 
‘There is no wish on my part to cause any dis- 
tress in that quarter. Indeed, I am sorry for 
that quarter.” | 

‘*'There was a boy in that quarter,” remarked 
Eugene. ‘“ He is still there?” 

‘No,’ said Mr. Inspector. ‘‘ He has quitted 
those works. He is otherwise disposed of.’ 

‘* Will she be left alone then?” asked Eu- 
gene. 

‘<She will be left,”’ said Mr. Inspector, ‘‘alone.” 

Bob’s reappearance with a steaming jug broke 
off the conversation. But although the jug 
steamed forth a delicious perfume, its contents 
had not received that last happy touch which the 
surpassing finish of the Six Jolly Fellowship 
Porters imparted on such momentous occasions. 
Bob carried in his left hand one of those iron 
models of sugar-loaf hats, before mentioned, 
into which he emptied the jug, and the pointed 
end of which he thrust deep down into the fire, 
so leaving it for a few moments while he disap- 
peared and reappeared with three bright drink- 
ing-glasses. Placing these on the table and 
bending over the fire, meritoriously sensible of 
the trying nature of his duty, he watched the 
wreaths of steam, until at the special instant of 
projection he caught up the iron vessel and gave 
it one delicate twirl, causing it to send forth one 
gentle hiss. ‘Then he restored the contents to 
the jug; held over the steam of the jug each of 
the three bright glasses in succession; finally 
filled them all, and with a clear conscience 
awaited the applause of his fellow-creatures. 

It was bestowed (Mr. Inspector having pro- 
posed as an appropriate sentiment ‘‘’The lime 
trade!”), and Bob withdrew to report the com- 
mendations of the guests to Miss Abbey in the 
bar. It may be here in confidence admitted 
that, the room being close shut in his absence, 
there had not appeared to be the slightest rea- 
son for the elaborate maintenance of this same 
lime fiction. Only it had been regarded by 
Mr. Inspector as so uncommonly satisfactory, 
and so fraught with mysterious virtues, that 
neither of his clients had presumed to ques- 
tion it. 

Two taps were now heard on the outside of 
the window. Mr. Inspector, hastily fortifying 
himself with another glass, strolled out with a 
noiseless foot and an unoccupied countenance, 
As one might go to survey the weather and the 
general aspect of the heavenly bodies. 

‘¢ This is becoming grim, Mortimer,” said Eu- 
gene, in a low voice. ‘I don’t like this.” | 

“Nor I,’ said Lightwood. ‘Shall we go?” 

“Being here, let us stay. You ought to see 
it out, and I won’t leave you. Besides, that 


and my | lonely girl with the dark hair runs in my head. 


82 


It was little more than a glimpse we had of her 
that last time, and yet I almost see her waiting 
by the fire to-night. Do you feel like a dark 

combination of traitor and pickpocket when you 
think of that girl?” 

‘* Rather,”’ returned Lightwood. 

**'Very-much so.” 

Their escort strolled back again, and report- 
ed, Divested of its various lime-lights and 
shadows, his report went to the effect that Gaf- 
fer was away in his boat, supposed to be on his 
old look-out; that he had been expected last 
high-water; that having missed it for some rea- 
‘son or other, he was not, according to his usual 
habits at night, to be counted on before next 
high-water, or it might be an hour or so later’ 
that his daughter, surveyed through the win- 
dow, would seem to be so expecting him, for 
the supper was not cooking, but set out ready to 
be cooked; that it would be high-water at about 
one, and that it was now barely ten; that there 
was nothing to be done but watch and wait; that 
the informer was keeping wateh at the instant 
of that present reporting, but that two heads 
were better than one (especially when the sec- 
ond was Mr. Inspector’s); and that the reporter 
meant to share the watch. And forasmuch as 

' crouching under the lee of a hauled-up boat on 
a night when it blew cold and strong, and when 
the weather was varied with blasts of hail at 
times, might be wearisome to amateurs, the re- 
porter closed with the recommendation that the 
two gentlemen should remain for a while, at any 
rate, in their present quarters, which were weath- 
er-tight and warm. 

They were not inclined to dispute this rec- 
ommendation, but they wanted to know where 
they could join the watchers when so disposed. 
Rather than trust to a’ verbal description of the 
place, which might mislead, Eugene (with a less 
weighty sense of personal trouble on him than 
he usually had) would go out with Mr. Inspect- 
or, note the spot, and come back. 

On the shelving bank of the river, among the 
slimy stones of a causeway—not the special 
causeway of the Six Jolly Fellowships, which 
had a landing-place of its own, but another, a 
little removed, and very near to the old wind- 
mill which was the denounced man’s dwelling- 
place—were a few boats; some, moored and al- 
ready beginning to float; others, hauled up above 
the reach of the tide. Under one of these latter 
Eugene’s companion disappeared.. And when 
Eugene had observed its position with reference 
to the other boats, and had made sure that he 
could not miss it, he turned his eyes upon the 
building where, as he had been told, the lonely 
girl with the dark hair sat by the fire. 

He could see the light of the fire shining 

hrough the window. Perhaps it drew him on 

to look in. Perhaps he had come out with the 
express intention. That part of the bank hav- 
ing rank grass growing on it, there was no diffi- 
culty in getting close without any noise of foot- 
steps: it was but to scramble up a ragged face 
of pretty hard mud some three or four feet high, 
and come upon the grass and to the window. 
He came to the window by that means. 

A She had no other light than the light of the 

re; 


“Do you?” 


The unkindled lamp stood on the table. 
She sat on the ground, looking at the brazier, 


with her face leaning on her hand. ‘There was 


“oe 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


a kind of film or flicker on her face, which at 
first he took to be the fitful fire-light ; but, on a 
second look, he saw that she was weeping. A 
sad and solitary spectacle, as shown him by the 
rising and the falling of the fire. f 

It was a little window of but four pieces of 


glass, and was not curtained; he chose it be-- 


cause the larger window near it was. It show- 
ed him the room, and the bills upon the wall 
respecting the drowned people starting out and 
receding by turns. But he glanced slightly at 
them, though he looked long and steadily at 
her. <A deep rich piece of color, with the brown 
flush of her cheek and the shining lustre of her 
hair, though sad and solitary, weeping ‘by the 
rising and the falling of the fire. 

She started up. He had been so very still 
that he felt sure it was not he who had disturb- 
ed her, so merely withdrew from the window 
and stood neat it in-the shadow of.the wall. 
She opened the door, and said, in an alarmed 
tone, * Father, was that you calling me?” And 
again, ‘Father!’ And once again, after list- 
ening, ‘‘ Father! I thought I heard you éall me 
twice before !”’ 

No response. As she re-entered at the door 
he dropped over the bank and made his way 
back, among the ooze and near the hiding-place, 
to Mortimer Lightwood: to whom he told what 
he had seen of the girl, and how this was be- 
coming very grim indeed. 

“If the real man feels as guilty as I do,” said 
Eugene, ‘‘he is remarkably uncomfortable,” 

“Influence of secrecy,” suggested Lightwood. 

‘I am not at all obliged to it for making me 
Guy Fawkes in the vault and a Sneak in the 
area both at once,” said Eugene. ‘Give me 
some more of that stuff.” 

Lightwood helped him to some more of that 
stuff, but it had been cooling, and didn’t answer 
now. 

**Pooh,” said Eugene, spitting it out among 
the ashes. ‘‘ Tastes like the wash of the river.” 

‘‘ Are you so familiar with the flavor of the 
wash of the river ?” 


‘I seem to be to-night. I feel as if I had 
been half drowned, and swallowing a gallon of 


it 99 . 


‘* Influence of locality,” suggested Lightwood. ’ 


‘You are mighty learned to-night, you and 
your influences,” returned Eugene. ‘‘ How long 
do we stay here ?” 

‘* How long do you think ?” 

“If I could choose, I should say a minute,” 
replied Eugene, ‘for the Jolly Fellowship Por- 
ters are not the jolliest dogs I have known. 
I suppose we are best here until they turn us out 
with the other suspicious characters, at mid- 
night.” ; 

Thereupon he stirred the fire, and sat down 
on one side of it. 
made believe to compose himself patiently. + But 
gradually he took the fidgets in one leg, and 
then in the other leg, and then in one arm, and 
then in the other arm, and then in his chin, and 
then in his back, and then in his.forehead, and 
then in his hair, and then in his nose; and then 
he stretched himself recumbent on two chairs, 
and groaned; and then he started up. 

‘Invisible insects of diabolical activity swarm 


in this place. I am tickled and twitched all — 


over. Mentally, I have now committed a bur- 


But . 


It struck eleven, and he 


wg 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


BSS 
RANNRK 


SS AN XW \ 


8 

58 Bt Nh brat 
Rtas 

Nh 


glary under the meanest circumstances, and the 
myrmidons of justice are at my heels.”’ 

‘<I am quite as bad,” said Lightwood, sitting 
up facing him, with a tumbled head, after going 
through some wonderful evolutions, in which 
his head had been the lowest part of him. ‘‘'This 
restlessness began, with me, long ago. All the 


time you were out I felt like Gulliver with the 


Liliputians firing upon him.” 

‘It won’t do, Mortimer. We must get into 
the air; we must join our dear friend and broth- 
er, Riderhood. And let us tranquilize ourselves 
by making a compact. Next time (with a view 
to our peace of mind) we’ll commit the crime, 
instead of taking the criminal. You swear it?” 
,. ‘ Certainly.” 


a= ay Ue “y FY Ly 


83 


44. 
SSLEL SM 


ALL 


AS 


SAS 


ERAS 
SO 


= Ss 


WAITING FOR FATHER. 


‘¢Sworn! Let Tippins look to it. Her life’s 
in danger.” | 

Mortimer rang the bell to pay the score, and 
Bob appeared to transact that business with him ; 
whom Eugene, in his careless extravagance, ask- 
ed if he would like a situation in the lime-trade ? 

‘“‘Thankee Sir, no Sir,’ said Bob. “I’ve a 
good sitiwation here, Sir.” 

‘‘If you change your mind at any time,” re- 
turned Eugene, ‘‘come to me at my works, and. 
you'll always find an. opening in the lime-kiln.” 

‘¢'Thankee Sir,’’ said Bob. 

‘This is my partner,” said Eugene, ‘who 
keeps the books and attends to the wages. A 
fair day’s wages for a fair day’s workas ever my 

“partner’s motto.” : 


4, 


84 


‘Anda very good "un it is, gentlemen,” said 
Bob, receiving his fee, and drawing a bow out 
of his head with his right hand, very much as 
he would have drawn a pint of beer out of the 
beer engine. 

‘‘ Eugene,” Mortimer apostrophized him, 
laughing quite heartily when they were alone 
again, ‘‘ how can you be so ridiculous ?” 

‘*T am in a ridiculous humor,” quoth Eugene ; 
“Tam a ridiculous fellow. Every thing is ri- 
diculous. Come along!” 
~~ It passed into Mortimer Lightwood’s mind 

that a change of some sort, best expressed per- 
haps as an intensification of all that was wildest 
and most negligent and reckless in his friend, 
ghad come upon him in the last half hour or so. 
Thoroughly used to him as he was, he found 
something new and strained in him that was for 
the moment perplexing. ‘This passed into his 
mind, and passed out again; but he remember- 
ed it afterward. 

‘““There’s where she sits, you see,” said Eu- 
gene, when they were standing under the bank, 
roared and riven at by the wind. ‘‘There’s the 
light of her fire.” 

“I'll take a peep through the window,” said 
Mortimer. 

‘No, don’t!” Eugene caught him by the 
arm. ‘‘ Best not make a show of her. Come 
to our honest friend.” 

He led him to the post of watch, and they 
both dropped-down and crept under the lee of 
the boat; a better shelter than it had seemed, 
before being directly contrasted with the blowing 
wind and the bare night. 

‘* Mr. Inspector at home ?” whispered Eugene. 

** Here I am, Sir.” 

“‘ And our friend of the perspiring brow is at 
the far corner there? Good. Any thing hap- 
pened ?” 

‘His daughter has been out, thinking she 
heard him calling, unless it was a sign to him 
to keep out of the way. It might have been.” 

‘It might have been Rule Britannia,” mut- 
tered Eugene, ‘‘but it wasn’t. Mortimer!” 

“Here!” (On the other side of Mr. Inspector ) 

*“Two burglaries now, and a forgery !” 

With this indication of his depressed state of 
mind Eugene fell silent. 

They were all silent for a long while. As. it 
got to be flood-tide, and the water came nearer 
to them, noises on the river became more fre- 
guent, and they listened more. To the turning 
of steam-paddles, to the clinking of iron chain, 
to the creaking of blocks, to the measured work- 
ing of oars, to the occasional violent barking of 
some passing dog on shipboard, who seemed to 
scent them lying in their hiding-place. The 
night was not so dark but that, besides the lights 
at bows and mast-heads gliding to and fro, they 
could discern some shadowy bulk attached; and 
now and then a ghostly lighter with a large dark 
sail, like a warning arm, would start up very 
near them, pass on, and vanish. At this time 
of their watch the water close to them would be 
often agitated by some impulsion given it from 
a distance. Often they believed this beat and 
plash to be the boat they lay in wait for, running 
in ashore; and again and again they would have 
started up, but for the immobility with which 
the informer, well used to the river, kept quiet 
in his place. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


The wind carried away the striking of the 


great multitude of city church clocks, for those - 


lay to leeward of them; but there were bells to 
windward that told them of its being One—Two 
—Three. 
known how the night wore by the falling of the 
tide, recorded in the appearance of an ever-wid- 
ening black wet strip of shore, and the emerg- 
ence of the paved causeway from the river, foot 
by foot. 

As the time so passed, this slinking business 
became a more and more precarious one. It 
would seem as if the man had had some intima- 
tion of what was in hand against him, or had 
taken fright? His movements might have been 
planned to gain for him, in getting beyond their 
reach, twelve hours’ advantage? The honest 
man who had expended the sweat of his brow 
became uneasy, and began to complain with bit- 
terness of the proneness of mankind to cheat him 
—him invested with the dignity of Labor! 

Their retreat was so chosen that while they 
could watch the river they could watch the house. 
No one had passed in or out since the daughter 
thought she heard the father calling. No one 
could pass in or out without being seen. 

‘* But it will be light at five,” said Mr. In- 
spector, ‘‘and then we shall be seen,” 

** Look here,” said Riderhood, ‘‘ what do you 
say to this? He may have been lurking in and 
out, and just holding his own between two or 
three bridges for hours back.” 

‘What do you make of that ?” said Mr. In- 
spector ; stoical, but contradictory. 

‘He may be doing so at this present time,” 

‘What do you make of that?” said Mr. In- 
spector. 

‘‘My boat’s among them boats here at the 
cause’ay.”’ 

“And what do you make of your boat?” said 
Mr. Inspector. ; 3 

“What if I put off in her and take a look 
round? I know his ways, and the likely nooks 
he favors. I know where he’d be at such atime 
of the tide, and where he’d be at such another 
time. Ain’t I been his pardner? None of you 
need show. None of you need stir. -I can shove 
her off without help; and as to me being seen, 
I’m about at all times.” , 

‘* You might have given a worse opinion,” said 
Mr. Inspector, after briefconsideration. “ Try it 

‘Stop a bit. Let’s work it out. 
you, I'll drop round under the Fellowships and 
tip you a whistle.” 

‘‘If I might so far presume as to offer a sug- 
gestion to my honorable and gallant friend, 
whose knowledge of naval matters far be it from 
me to impeach,”’ Eugene struck in with great 


is to advertise mystery and invite speculation, 
My honorable and gallant friend will, I trust, 


ing out a remark which I feel to be due to this 
house and the country.” 

‘Was that the ‘I’other Governor, or Lawyer 
Lightwood ?” asked Riderhood ; for they spoke, 
as they crouched or lay, without seeing one an- 
other’s faces. hia 

‘In reply to the question put by my honora- 
ble and gallant friend,” said Eugene, who was 
lying on his back with his hat on his face, as an 
[attitude highly expressive of watchfulness, ‘‘I 


Without that aid they would have. 


If I want 


deliberation, ‘it would be, that to tip a whistle 


| excuse me, as an independent member, for throw-. 


: OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. m wit 


can have no hesitation in replying (it not being in- 
consistent with the public service) that those ac- 
cents were the accents of the T’other Governor.” 

‘¢You’ve tolerable good eyes, ain’t you, Gov- 
ernor? You've all tolerable good eyes, ain’t 
you?” demanded the informer. 

All. 

‘Then if I row up under the Fellowships and 
lay there, no need to whistle. You'll make out 
that there’s a speck of something or another 
there, and you'll know it’s me, and you'll come 
down that cause’ay to me. Understood all?” 

Understood all. ; 

‘+ Off she goes then!” 

In a moment, with the wind cutting keenly 
at him sideways, he was staggering down to his 
boat; in a few moments he was clear, and creep- 
ing up the river under their own shore. 

‘Eugene had raised himself on his elbow to 
look into the darkness after him. ‘‘I wish the 

boat of my honorable and gallant friend,” he 
murmured, lying down again and speaking into 
his hat, ‘‘may be endowed with philanthropy 
enough to turn bottom upward and extinguish 
him !—Mortimer.” 

‘‘ My honorable friend.” 

‘‘Three burglaries, two forgeries, and a mid- 
night assassination.” 

Yet, in spite of having those weights on his 
conscience, Eugene was somewhat enlivened by 
the late slight change in the circumstances of 
affairs. So were his two companions. Its be- 
ing a change was every thing. The suspense 
seemed to have taken a new lease, and to have 
begun afresh from a recent date. There was 
something additional to look for. They were all 
three more sharply on the alert, and less dead- 
ened by the miserable influences of the place and 
time. 

More than an hour had passed, and they were 
even dozing, when one of the three—each said 
it was he, and he had not dozed—made out Ri- 
derhood in his boat at the spot agreed on. They 
sprang up, came out from their shelter, and went 
down to him. When he saw them coming he 
dropped alongside the causeway ; so that they, 
standing on the causeway, could speak with him 
in whispers, under the shadowy mass of the Six 
Jolly Fellowship Porters fast asleep. 

_ © Blest if I can make it out!” said he, staring 
at them. 

‘‘ Make what out? Have you seen him?” 

“No.” 

‘‘What have you seen?” asked Lightwood ; 
for he was staring at them in the strangest way. 

‘¢T’ve seen his boat.” 

. * Not empty ?” 

_ . “Yes, empty. And what’s more,—adrift. 
And what’s more,—with one scull gone. And 
what’s more,—with t’other scull jammed in the 
thowels and broke short off. And what’s more, 
—the boat’s drove tight by the tide ’atwixt two 
tiers of barges. And what’s more,—he’s in luck 
again, by George if he ain’t !” 


— 
CHAPTER XIV. 


THE BIRD OF PREY BROUGHT DOWN. 


Cotp on the shore, in the raw cold of that 
leaden crisis in the four-and-twenty hours when 


aA, 85 


the vital force of all the noblest and prettiest 
things that live is at its lowest, the three watch- 
ers looked each at the blank faces of the other 
two, and all at the blank face of Riderhood in 
his boat. 

‘*Gaffer’s boat, Gaffer in luck again, and yet 
no Gaffer!’ So spake Riderhood, staring dis- 
consolate. 

As if with one accord, they all turned their 
eyes toward the light of the fire shining through 
the window. It was fainter and duller. Per- 
haps fire, like the higher animal and vegetable 
life it helps to sustain, has its greatest tendency 
toward death, when the night is dying and the 
ay is not yet born. 

“If it was me that had the law of this here 
job in hand,” growled Riderhood with a threat- 
ening shake of his head, ‘‘ blest if I wouldn’t lay 
hold of her, at any rate!” 

‘¢ Av; but it is not you,” said Eugene. With 
something so suddenly fierce in him that the in- 
former returned, submissively: ‘ Well, well, well, 
t’other governor, I didn’t say it was. A man 
may speak.” 

‘¢ And vermin may be silent,” said Eugene. 
‘¢Hold your tongue, you water-rat !” 

Astonished by his friend’s unusual heat, Light- 
wood stared too, and then said: ‘‘ What can have 
become of this nlan ?” 

‘‘Can’t imagine. Unless he dived overboard.” 
The informer wiped his brow ruefully as he said 
it, sitting in his boat and always staring discon- 
solate. 

‘Did you make his boat fast ?” 

‘¢ She’s fast enough till the tide runs back. I 
couldn’t make her faster than she is. Come 
aboard of mine, and see for your ownselves.” . 

There was a little backwardness in comply- 
ing, for the freight looked too much for the boat 5 
but on Riderhood’s protesting ‘‘ that he had had 
half a dozen, dead and alive, in her afore now, 
and she was nothing deep in the water nor down 
in the stern even then, to speak of,” they care- 
fully took their places, and trimmed the crazy 
thing. While they were doing so, Riderhood 
still sat staring disconsolate. 

‘Allright. Give way!” said Lightwood. 

‘¢Give way, by George!” repeated Riderhood, 
before shoving off. ‘‘If he’s gone and made off 
any how Lawyer Lightwood, it’s enough to make 


me give way in a different manner. But he al- 
ways was a cheat, con-found him! He always 
was a infernal cheat, was Gaffer. Nothing 


straightfor’ard, nothing on the square. So 
mean, so underhanded. Never going through 
with a thing, nor carrying it out like a man!” 

‘¢Halloo! Steady!” cried Eugene (he had re- 
covered immediately on embarking), as they 
bumped heavily against a pile; and then in a 
lower voice reversed his late apostrophe by re- 
marking (‘*I wish the boat of my honorable and 
gallant friend may be endowed with philanthro- 
py enough not to turn bottom-upward and ex- 
tinguish us!) Steady, steady! Sit close, Mor- 
timer. Here’s the hail again. See how it flies, 
like a troop of wild-cats, at Mr. Riderhood’s 
eyes!” 

Indeed he had the full benefit of it, and it so 
mauled him, though he bent his head low and 
tried to present nothing but the mangy cap to 
it, that he dropped under the lee of a tier of 
shipping, and they lay there until it was over. 


86 iy 
The squall had come up, like a spiteful messen- 
ger before the morning; there followed in its 
wake a ragged tear of light which ripped the 
dark clouds until they showed a great gray hole 
of day. 

They were all shivering, and every thing about 
them seemed to be shivering; the river itself, 
craft, rigging, sails, such early smoke as there 
yet was on the shore. Black with wet, and al- 
tered to the eye by white patches of hail and 
sleet, the huddled buildings looked lower than 
usual, as if they were cowering, and had shrunk 
with the cold. Very little life was to be seen 
on either bank, windows and doors were shut, 
and the staring black and white letters upon 
@wharves and warehouses ‘‘ looked,’’ said Eugene 
to Mortimer, ‘‘ like inscriptions over the graves 
of dead businesses.” 

As they glided slowly on, keeping under the 
shore, and sneaking in and out among the ship- 
ping by back-alleys of water, in a pilfering way 
that seemed to be their boatman’s normal man- 
ner of progression, all the objects among which 
they crept were so huge in contrast with their 
wretched boat as to threaten to crush it. Not 
a ship’s hull, with its rusty iron links of cable 
run out of hawse-holes long discolored with the 
iron’s rusty tears, but seemed to be there with a 
fell intention. Not a figure-head but had a 
menacing look of bursting forward to run them 
down. Not a sluice-gate, or a painted scale 
upon a post or wall, showing the depth of wa- 
ter, but seemed to hint, like the dreadfully face- 
tious Wolf in bed in Grandmamma’s cottage, 
‘<That’s to drown you in, my dears!” Not a 
lumbering black barge,- with its cracked and 
blistered side impending over them, but seemed 
to suck at the river with a thirst for sucking 
» them under. And every thing so vaunted the 
spoiling influences of water—discolored copper, 
rotten wood, honey-combed stone, green dank 
deposit —that the after-consequences of being 
crushed, sucked under, and drawn down, looked 
as ugly to the imagination as the main event. 

Some half hour of this work, and Riderhood 
unshipped his sculls, stood holding on to.a barge, 
and hand over hand long-wise along the barge’s 
side gradually worked his boat under her head 
into a secret little nook of scummy water. And 
driven into that nook, and wedged as he had 
described, was Gaffer’s boat; that boat with the 
stain still in it, bearing some resemblance to a 
muffled human form. 

‘* Now tell me I’m a liar!” said the honest 
man. 

(‘‘With a morbid expectation,” murmured 
Eugene to Lightwood, ‘‘that somebody is al- 
ways going to tell him the truth.”) 

‘This is Hexam’s boat,” said Mr. Inspector. 
*¢T know her well.” 

*‘Look at the broken scull. Look at the 
t’other scull gone. Now tell.meI am a liar!” 
said the honest man. 

Mr. Inspector stepped into the boat. 
and Mortimer looked on. 

‘* And see now!” added Riderhood, creeping 
aft, and showing a stretched rope made fast 
there and towing overboard. ‘‘Didn’t I tell 
you he was in luck again ?” 

‘* Haul in,” said Mr, Inspector. ' 

‘*Hasy to say haul in,” answered Riderhood. 
 “Notsoeasy done. His luck’s got fouled under 


Eugene 


va 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. «+ 


the keels of the barges. I tried to haul in last 
time, but I couldn’t. See how taut the line is!” 
“‘T must have it up,” said Mr. Inspector. ‘I 
am going to take this boat ashore, and his luce 
along with it. Try easy now.” : 


He tried easy now; but the luck resisted; © - 


wouldn’t come. | 

‘‘T mean to have it, and the boat too,” said 
Mr. Inspector, playing the line. 

But still the luck resisted ; wouldn’t come, 

““Take care,” said Riderhood. ‘You'll dis. 
figure. Or pull asunder perhaps.” 

‘‘T am not going to do either, not even to 
your Grandmother,” said Mr. Inspector; ‘‘ but 
I mean to have it. Come!” he added, at once 
persuasively and with authority to the hidden 
object in the water, as he played the line again; 
‘it’s no good this sort of game, you know. You 
must come up. I mean to have you.” 

There was so much virtue in this distinctly 
and decidedly meaning to have it, that it yielded 
a little, even while the line was played. 

‘*T told you so,” quoth Mr. Inspector, pulling 
off his outer coat, and leaning well over the 
stern with a will. ‘‘Come!” 

It was an awful sort of fishing, but it no more 
disconcerted Mr, Inspector than if he had been 
fishing in a punt on a summer evening by some 
soothing weir high up the peaceful river. After 
certain minutes, and a few directions to the rest 
to ‘‘ease her a little for’ard,” and ‘‘now ease 
her a trifle aft,” and the like, he said, composed- 
ly, ‘* All clear!” and the line and the boat came 
free together, 

Accepting Lightwood’s proffered hand to help 
him up, he then put on his coat, and said to 
Riderhood, ‘‘ Hand me over those spare sculls 
of yours, and [ll pull this itito the nearest stairs, 
Go ahead you, and keep out in pretty open wae. 
ter, that I mayn’t get fouled again.” 

His directions were obeyed, and they pulled 
ashore directly; two in one boat, two in the 
other. 

‘* Now,” said: Mr. Inspector, again to Rider- 


hood, when they were all on the slushy stones; 1 


‘‘ you have had more practice in this than I have 
had, and ought to be a better workman at it. 
Undo the tow-rope, and we’ll help you haul in.’”” 

Riderhood got into the boat accordingly. It 
appeared as if he had scarcely had a moment's ~ 
time to touch the rope or look over the stern, 
when he came scrambling back, as pale as the 
morning, and gasped out: : 

“By the Lord, he’s done me!” 

‘“What do you mean?” they all demanded. © 
» He pointed behind him at the boat, and gasped 
to that degree that he dropped upon the stones 
to get his breath. 

‘*Gaffer’s done me. It’s Gaffer!” | 

They ran to the rope, leaving him gasping 
there. Soon the form of the bird of prey, dead 
some hours, lay stretched upon the shore, with . 


a new-blast storming at it and clotting the wet a 


hair with hailstones.: 


Father, was that you callingme? Father! I 
thought I heard you call me twice before! Words _ 
never to be answered, those, upon the earth-side 
The wind sweeps jeeringly over ~ 


of the grave. 


Father, whips him with the frayed ends of his — 
dress and his jagged hair, tries to turn him where 
he lies stark on his back, and force his face to- 
ward the rising sun, that he may be shamed the 


\ 


‘ 


a 


a 


4 


_ Why not speak, Father? 


: 


hi 

df 

s 

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ay 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ade 


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‘NMOG IHDNOUA AGUA JO Auld AHL 


Meee 
i 


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My, 
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= 
= 


more. A lull, and the wind is secret and prying 


_ with him; lifts and lets fall a rag; hides pal- 


pitating under another rag ; runs nimbly through 
his hair and beard. Then, in a rush, it cruelly 
taunts him. Father, was that you calling me? 
Was it you, the voiceless and the dead? Was it 
you, thus buffeted as you lie here in a heap? 
Was it you, thus baptized unto Death, with 
these flying impurities now flung upon your face ? 
Soaking into this 


_ fiithy ground as you lie here, is your own shape. 
_ Did you never see such a shape soaked into your 


boat? Speak, Father. Speak to us, the winds, 


_ the only listeners left you! 


“Now see,” said Mr. Inspector, after mature 


- deliberation ; kneeling on one knee beside the 


SE G; (A 
<—s LAA a 


jy 7) 


Yj, 


87 


Nae 


. " Ay 
Ue) i} 3 


Lili 


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ised 


body, when they had stood looking down on the 
drowned Man;yas he had many a time looked 
down on many another man: ‘the way of it was_ 
this. Of course you gentlemen hardly failed to 
observe that he was towing by the neck and 
arms,”’ 

They had helped to release the rope, and of 
course not. 

‘¢ And you will have observed before, and you 
will observe now, that this knot, which was drawn 
chock-tight round his neck by the strain of his 
own arms, is a slip-knot:” holding it up for dem- 
onstration. . 

Plain enough. 

‘Likewise you will hay8 observed how he had 
run the other end of this rope to his boat.” 


88 

It had the curves and indentations in it still, 
where it had been twined and bound. 

‘¢ Now see,” said Mr. Inspector, ‘‘see how it 
works round upon him. It’s a wild tempestuous 
evening when this man that was,” stooping to 
wipe some hailstones out of his hair with an end 
of his own drowned jacket, ‘‘—there! Now he’s 
more like himself, though he’s badly bruised— 
when this man that was rows-out upon the river 
on his usual lay. He carries with him this coil 


of rope. He always carries with him this coil 
of rope. It’s as well known to me as he was 
himself. Sometimes it lay in the bottom of his 
boat. Sometimes he hung it loose round his 


neck. He was a light-dresser was this man— 
you see?” lifting the loose neckerchief over his 
breast, and taking the opportunity of wiping the 
dead lips with it—‘‘and when it was wet, or 
freezing, or blew cold, he would hang this coil 
of line round his neck. Last evening he does 
this. Worse for him! He dodges about in his 
boat, does this man, till he gets chilled. His 
hands,” taking up one of them, which dropped 
like a leaden weight, ‘‘get numbed. He sees 
some object that’s in his way of business, float- 
ing. He makes ready to secure that object. He 
unwinds the end of his coil that he wants to take 
some turns on in his boat, and he takes turns 
enough on it to secure that it sha’n’t run out. 
He makes it too secure, as it happens. Heisa 
little longer about this than usual, his hands 
being numbed. His object drifts up, before he 
is quite ready for it. He catches at it, thinks 
he'll make sure of the contents of the pockets 
any how, in case he should be parted from it, 
bends right over the stern, and in one of these 
heavy squalls, or in the cross-swell of two steam- 
ers, Or in not being quite prepared, or through 
all or most or some, gets a lurch, overbalances 
and goes head-foremost overboard. Now see! 
He can swim, can this man, and instantly he 
strikes out. But in such striking-out he tangles 
his arms, pulls strong on the slip-knot, and it 
runs home. The object he had expected to take 
in tow floats by, and his own boat tows him 
dead, to where we found him, all entangled in 
his own line. You'll ask me how I make out 
about the pockets? First, I'll tell you more; 
there was silver in’em. How do I make that 
out? Simple and satisfactory. Because he’s 
got it here.” ‘The lecturer held up the tightly- 
clenched right hand. 

.** What is to be done with the remains?” 
asked Lightwood. ’ 

“‘Tf you wouldn’t object to standing by him 
half a minute, Sir,” was the reply, ‘‘I’ll finds 
the nearest of our men to come and take charge 
of him—T still call it him, you see,” said Mr. 
Inspector, looking back as he went, with a phil- 
osophical smile upon the force of habit. 

‘¢Kugene,” said Lightwood—and was about 
to add ‘‘we may wait at a little distance,” when 
turning his head he found that no Eugene was 
_ there. 

He raised his voice and called ‘‘ Eugene! 
Holloa!” But no Eugene replied. 

It was broad daylight now, and he looked 
about. But no Eugene was in all the view. 

Mr. Inspector speedily returning down the 
wooden stairs, with a police constable, Light- 
wood asked him if hé’ had seen his friend leave 
them? Mr. Inspector could not exactly say 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Mi 


ih 
that he had seen him go, but had noticed that 
he was restless. ae 

*¢ Singular and entertaining combination, Sir, 
your friend.” » 

‘*T wish it had not been a part of his singular 
and entertaining combination to give me the 
slip under these dreary circumstances at this 
time of the morning,” said Lightwood. ‘‘Can 
we get any thing hot to drink?” . 

We could, and we did.. In a public-house 
kitchen with a large fire. We got hot brandy 
and water, and it revived us wonderfully. Mr. 
Inspector having to Mr. Riderhood announced ~ 
his official intention of ‘‘ keeping his eye upon 
him,” stood him in a corner of the fire-place, 
like a wet umbrella, and took no further out- 
ward and visible notice of that honest man, ex- 
cept ordering a separate service of brandy and 
water for him: apparently out of the public 
funds. | 

As Mortimer Lightwood sat before the blaz- 
ing fire, conscious of drinking brandy and water 
then and there in his sleep, and yet at one and 
the same time drinking burned sherry at the Six 
Jolly Fellowships, and lying under the boat on 
the river shore, and sitting in the boat that 
Riderhood rowed, and listening to the lecture © 
recently concluded, and having to dine in the 
Temple with an unknown man, who described 
himself as M. R. F. Eugene Gaffer Harmon, 
and said he lived at Hailstorm—as he passed 
through these curious vicissitudes of fatigue and 
slumber, arranged upon the scale of a dozen 
hours to the second, he became aware of an- 
swering aloud a communication of pressing im- 
portance that had never been made to him, and 
then turned it into a cough on beholding Mr. 
Inspector. For he felt, with some natural in- 
dignation, that that functionary might other- 
wise_suspect him of having closed his eyes, or — 
wandered in his attention. . 4 

‘Here just before us, you see,” said Mr. In- 
spector. 

“¢ Tsee,” said Lightwood, with dignity. 

‘*And had hot brandy and water too, you 
see,’’ said Mr. Inspector, ‘‘and then cut off ata — 
great rate.” ‘a 

‘¢Who?” said Lightwood. 

‘*Your friend, you know.” 

‘*T know,” he replied, again with dignity. 

After hearing, in a mist through which Mr. 
Inspector loomed vague and large, that the offi- — 
cer took upon himself to prepare the dead man’s — 
daughter for what had befallen in the night, and 
generally that he took every thing upon himself, 
Mortimer Lightwood stumbled in his sleep to a 
cab-stand, called a cab, and had entered the army 
and committed a capital military offense and 
been tried by court-martial and found guilty — 
and had arranged his affairs and been marched 
out to be shot, before the door banged. pe 

Hard work rowing the cab through the City — 
to the Temple, for a cup of from five to ten — 
thousand pounds value, given by Mr. Boffin; 
and hard work holding forth at that immeasurae 
ble length to Eugene (when he had been rescued 
with a rope from the running pavement) for 
making off in thatextraordinary manner! But 
he offered such ample apologies, and was so very 
penitent, that when Lightwood got out of the ~ 
cab, he gave the driver a particular charge to be — 
careful of him. Which the driver (knowing — 


VW. 


OUR MUTUAL ¥RIEND. 


there was no other fare left inside) stared at 
prodigiously. 

In short, the mght’s work had so exhausted 
and worn out this actor in it, that he had be- 
come a mere somnambulist. He was too tired 
to rest in his sleep, until he was even tired out 
of bemg too tired, and dropped into oblivion. 
Late in the afternoon he awoke, and, in some 
anxiety sent round to Eugene’s lodging hard by 
to inquire if he were up yet? 

Oh yes, he was up. In fact, he had not been 
tobed. He had justcome home. And here he 


was, close following on the heels of the message. 


‘‘Why what bloodshot, draggled, disheveled 
spectacle is this !’’ cried Mortimer. 

** Are my feathers so very much rumpled ?” 
said Engene, coolly going up to the looking- 
glass. ‘*They are rather out of sorts. But 
consider. Such a night for plumage!” 

“Such a night ?” repeated Mortimer. ** What 
became of you in the morning ?” 

‘*My dear fellow,” said Engene, sitting on 


his bed, ‘‘I felt that we had bored one another 


so long, that an unbroken continuance of those 
relations must inevitably terminate in onr flying 
to opposite points of the earth. I also felt. that 
I had committed every crime in the Newgate 
Calendar. So, for mingled considerations of 
friendship and felony, I took a walk.” 


oS date Es 


CHAPTER XV. 


TWO NEW SERVANTS. 


Mr. and Mrs. Boffin sat after breakfast, in 
the Bower, a prey to prosperity. Mr. Boftin’s 
face denoted Care and Complication. Many 
disordered papers were before him, and he looked 
at them about as hopefully as an innocent civil- 
ian might look at a crowd of troops whom he 
was required at five minutes’ notice to mancen- 
vre and review. He had been engaged in some 
attempts to make notes of these papers; but. be- 
ing troubled (as men of his stamp often are) with 
an exceedingly distrustful and corrective thumb, 
that busy member had so often interposed to 
smear his notes, that they were little more legi- 
ble than the various impressions of itself, which 
blurred his nose and forehead. It is curious to 
consider, in such acase was Mr. Boffin’s, what a 
cheap article ink is, and how far it may be made 
to go. Asa grain of musk will scent a drawer 
for many years, and still lose nothing appreci- 
able of its original weight, so a halfpenny-worth 
of ink would blot Mr. Boffin to the roots of his 


hair and the calves of his legs, without inscrib- 
ing a line on the paper before him, or appearing 


to diminish in the inkstand. 

Mr. Boffin was in such severe literary difficul- 
ties that his eyes were prominent and fixed, and 
his breathing was stertorous, when, to the great 
relief of Mrs. Boffin, who observed these symp- 


toms with alarm, the yard bell rang. ¢ 


**'Who’s that, I wonder!” said Mrs. Boffin. 
Mr. Boffin drew a long breath, laid down his 


| pen, looked at his notes as doubting whether he 


had the pleasure of their acquaintance, and ap- 
peared, on a second perusal of their counte- 
nances, to be confirmed in his impression that 
he had not, when there was announced by the 


hammer-headed young man: 


4 


89 

**Mr. Rokesmith.” 

**Oh!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘*Ohindeed! Our 
and the Wilfers’ Mutual Friend, my dear. Yes. 
Ask him to come in.” 

Mr. Rokesmith appeared. 

‘Sit down, Sir,” said Mr. Boffin, shaking 
hands with him. ‘Mrs, Bottin you’re already 
acquainted with. Well, Sir, lam rather unpre- 
pared to see you, for, to tell you the truth, I've 
been so busy with one thing ‘and another that 
T’ve not had time to turn your offer over.” 

‘*'That’s apology for both of us: for Mr. Bof- 
fin, and for me as well,” said the smiling Mrs. 
Boffin. ‘* But Lor! we can talk it over now; 
can’t us?” 

Mr. Rokesmith bowed, thanked her, and said 
he hoped so. 

‘* Let me see then,” resumed Mr. Boffin, with 
his hand to his chin. ‘‘It was Secretary that 
you named ; wasn’t it ?” 

‘**{ said Secretary,” assented Mr. Rokesmith. 

‘It rather puzzled me at. the time,” said Mr. 
Boffin, ‘Sand it rather puzzled me and Mrs. 
Boffin when we spoke of it afterward, because 
(not to make a mystery of our belief) we 
have always believed a Secretary to be a piece 
of furniture, mostly of mahogany, lined with 
green baize or leather, with a lot of little draw. 
ers init. Now, you won’t think I take a liberty 
when I mention that you certainly ain’t that.” 

‘Certainly not,” said Mr. Rokesmith. But 
he had used the word in the sense of Steward. 

‘* Why, as to Steward, von see,” returned Mr. 
Boffin, with his hand still to his chin, ‘the odds 
are that Mrs. Boffin and me may never go upon 
the water. Being both bad sailors, we should 
want a Steward if we did; but there’s generally 
one provided.” 

Mr. Rokesmith again explained; defining the 
duties he sought to undertake, as those of gen- 
eral superintendent, or manager, or overlooker, 
or man of business. 

** Now, for instance—come!” said Mr. Boffin, 
in his pouncing way. “If you entered my em- 
ployment, what would you do ?” 

‘*T would keep exact accounts of all the ex- 
penditure you sanctioned, Mr. Roftin. I would 
write your letters, under your direction, Iwould 
transact your business with people in your pay 
or employment. I would,” with a glance and a 
half-smile at the table, ‘‘ arrange your papers—” 

Mr. Boffin rubbed his inky ear, and looked 
at his wife. ; 

**_ And so arrange them as to have them al- 


-ways in order for immediate reference, with a 


note of the contents of each outside it.” 

‘*T tell you what,” said Mr. Boffin, slowly 
crnmpling his own blotted note in his hand; 
‘‘if you'll turn to at these present papers, and 
see what vou can make of ’em, I shall know bet- 
ter what I can make of you.” 

No sooner said than done, Relinquishing his 
hat and gloves, Mr. Rokesmith sat down quietly 
at_ the table, arranged the open papers into an 
orderly heap, cast his eyes over each in succes- 
sion, folded it, docketed it on the outside, laid it 
in a second heap, and when that second heap 
was complete and the first gone, took from his 
pocket a piece of string and tied it together with 
a remarkably dextrous hand at a running curve 
and a loop. 

**Good!” said Mr. Beffin. ‘‘ Very good! 


99 


Now let us hear what they’re all about; w ill 
you be so good ?” 

John Roksan read his abstracts aloud. — 
They were all about the new house. Decora- 
tor’s settings so much. Furniture estimate, 
so much. Estimate for furniture of offices, 
so much. Coach-maker’s estimate, so much. 
Horse-dealer’s estimate, so much. 
maker's estimate, so much. Goldsmith’s 
mate, so much. ‘Total, so very much. Then 
came correspondence. Acceptance of Mr. Bof- 
fin’s offer of such a date, and to such an effect. 


Rejection of Mr. Boffin’s proposal of such a date, | 
Concerning Mr. Boffin’s . 


and to such an effect. 
scheme of such another, date to such another ef- | 
fect. All compact and ‘methodical. 

** Apple-pie order!” said Mr, Boffin, after | 
checking off each inscription with his hand, likea. 
man beating time. ‘‘ And whatever you do with 
your ink, I can't think, for you’re as clean asa 
whistle after it. Now, astoa letter. Let's,” said 
Mr. Boffin, rubbing his hands in his pleasantly 
childish atlmiration, ‘*let’s try a letter next.” 

‘To whom shall it be addressed, Mr. Boffin?” 

“‘Any one. Yourself.” 

Mr. Rokesmith quickly wrote, and then read 
aloud : 

‘** Mr. Boffin presents his compliments to 
Mr. Jolin Rokesmith, and begs to say that he 
has decided on giving Mr. John Rokesmith a 
trial in the capacity he desires to fill. Mr. Bof- 
fin takes Mr. John Rokesmith at his word, in 


postponing to some indefinite period the consid- | 


eration of salary. It is quite understood that 
Mr. Boffin is in no way committed on that point. 
Mr. Boffin has merely to add, that he relies on 
Mr. John Rokesmith’s assurance that he will be 
faithful and serviceable. Mr. John Rokesmith 
will please enter on his duties immediately.’ ”’ 

‘*Well! Now, Noddy!” cried Mrs. Boffin, 
clapping her hands, ‘¢ That ts a good one!” 

Mr. Boffin was no less delighted; indeed, in 
his own bosom, he regarded both the composition 
itself and the device that had given birth to it, 
as a very remarkable monument of human in- 
genuity. 


‘* And I tell you, my deary,” said Mrs. Boffin, 


‘that if you don’t close with Mr. Rokesmith now | 


at once, and if you ever go a muddling yourself 
again with things never meant nor made for vou, 
you'll have an apoplexy—besides iron-moulding 
your linen—and you'll break my heart.” 

Mr. Boffin embraced his spouse for these words 


of wisdom, and then, congratulating John Roke- | 


smith on the brilliancy of his achievements, gave 
him his hand in pledge of their new relations. 
So did Mrs. Boffin. 

“Now,” said Mr. Boffin, who, in his frank- 
ness, felt that it did not become him to have a 
gentleman in his employment five minutes with- 
out reposing some confidence in him, ‘‘ vou mnst 
be let a little more into our affairs, Rokesmith. 
I mentioned to you, when I made your acquaint- 
ance, or I might better say when you made mine, 
that Mrs. Boffin’s inclinations was setting in the 


way of Fashion, but that I didn’t know how | guilty of a meanness, and to act like having © 
| one’s head turned by the halls of dazzling light. — 
Rokesmith, what shall we 


fashionable we might or might not grow. Well! | 
Mrs. Boffin has carried the day, and we’re go- 
ing in neck and crop for Fashion.” 

“‘T rather inferred that, Sir,” replied John 


Rokesmith, ‘‘ from the scale on which your pew. 


establishment 4 is to be maintained.” 


Harness- . 
esti- 


‘OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
said Mr. Boffin, ‘it’s to bea Spanker. | 


oes,” 
| The fact is, my literary man named to me that 


= 5 Sop 


a house with which he i is, as 1 may sidy, connect- 


ed—in which he has an interest—”’ 

‘* As property ?” inquired John Ro kesmith. 

“Why no,” said Mr. Boffin, 
that; a sort of a family tie.” 

** Association ?” the Secretary suggested. . 

‘¢Ab!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘ Perhaps. Any- 
how, he named to me that the house had a 
board up, ‘ This Eminently Aristocratic Mansion 
_to be let or sold.” Me and Mrs. Boftin went to 
look at it, and finding it beyond a doubt Emi- 
-nently Aristocratic (though a trifle high and 
dull, which after all may be part of the same 
| thing) took it. My literary man was.so friendly 
| as to drop into a charming piece of poetry on that 
occasion, in which he complimented Mrs. Boffin 
_on coming into possession of—how did it £0, my 
dear ?” 

Mrs. Boffin replied : 

“6¢The gay, the gay and festive scene, 
The halls, the halls of dazzling light.’ 


““That’s it! And it was made neater by there 


really being two halls in the house, a front ’un~ 
He like-— 


and a back ’un, besides the servants’, 
wise dropped into a very pretty piece of poetry to 


be sure, respecting the extent to which he would 


‘*‘not exactly 


Vas Jes a es ae 


be willing to put himself out of the way to bring © 
Mrs. Boffin round, in case she should ever get — 


low in her spirits in the house. 


Mrs. Boffin has a _ 


>s- 


wonderful memory. Will you repeat it, my dear?” ~ 


as she had received them. 


‘“**Tl]l tell thee how the maiden wept, Mrs. Boffin, 
‘* When her true love was slain ma'am, 

‘*And how her broken spirit slept, Mrs. Boffin, 
“And never woke agiin ma’am. 


‘I'll tell thee (if agreeable to Mr. Boffin) how the steed 


drew nigh, 
* And left his lord afar; 


‘And if my tale (which. I hope Mr. Boffin might excuse) © 


should make you sich, 
‘*Pll strike the light guitar.’ ” 


‘Correct to the letter!” said Mr. 


in, in a beautiful manner.” 


pleased. 


| ‘* Now, you see, Rokesmith,” he went on, ‘‘a _ 
literary man—with a wooden leg—is liable to- 
I shall therefore cast about for com-_ 


jealousy. 
fortable ways and means of not calling up Wegg’s 


jealousy, but of keeping } you in your department, 
and keeping him in his.” ‘i 
‘¢What I say 18, 


‘¢Lor!’’ cried Mrs. Boffin. 
the world’s wide enough for all of us!” 


not literary. But when so, not so. 


ble or of leaving the Bower. To let him feel 
himself any ways slighted now would be to be 


Which Lord forbid! 
say about your living in the house?” 
‘*Tn this house ?” 
‘*No, no. 


| house. In the new house?” 


a 


Mrs. Boffin complied, by reciting the verses in 
which this obliging offer had been made, exactly 


Boffin, | 
“And I consider that the poetry brings us both 


"The effect of the poem on the Secretary being — 
evidently to astonish him, Mr. Botlin was con- — 
firmed in his high opinion of it, and was stent 


‘*So it is, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘when ~ 
And I am — 
bound to bear in mind that T took Wegg on at a 
time when I had no thought of being fashiona- — 


I have got other plans for this 


OUR MUTUAL FRIE 
«That will be as you please, Mr. Boffin. I' 


hold myself quite at your disposal, You know 
where I live at present.” 

‘¢Well!” said Mr. Boffin, after considering 
the point; ‘‘ suppose you keep as you are for the 
present, and we'll decide by-and-by. You'll be- 
gin to take charge at once, of all that’s going on 
in the new house, will you?” 

“¢Most willingly. I will begin this very day. 
Will you give me the address ?” 

Mr. Boffin repeated it, and the Secretary wrote 
ijt down in his pocket-book. Mrs. Boffin took 
the opportunity of his being so engaged to get a 
better observation of his face than she had yet 
taken. It impressed her in his favor, for she 
nodded aside to Mr. Boffin, “ I like him.” 

“J will see directly that every thing is in 
train, Mr. Boffin.” 

““'Thank’ee. Being here, would you care at 
all to look round the Bower ?” 

‘I should greatly like it. 
much of its story.” 

‘‘Come!” said Mr. Boffin. 
Boffin led the way. 

A gloomy house the Bower, with sordid signs 
on it of having been, through its long existence 
as Harmony Jail, in miserly holding. Bare of 
paint, bare of paper on the walls, bare of furni- 
ture, bare of experience of human life. What- 
ever is built by man for man’s occupation, must, 
like natural creations, fulfill the intention of its 
existence or soon perish. This old house had 
wasted more from desuetude than it would have 
wasted from use, twenty years for one. 

A certain leanness falls upon houses not suffi- 

ciently imbued with life (as if they were nour- 
ished upon it), which was very noticeable here. 
The staircase, balustrades, and rails had a spare 
look—an air of being denuded to the bone— 
which the panels of the walls and the jambs of 
the doors and windows also bore. ‘The scanty 
movables partook of it; save for the cleanliness 
of the place, the dust into which they were all 
resolving would have lain thick on the floors; 
and those, both in color and in grain, were worn 
like old faces that had kept much alone. 

The bedroom where the clutching old man 
had lost his grip on life was left as he had left 

it. There was the old grisly four-post bedstead, 
without hangings, and with a jail-like upper rim 
of iron and spikes; and there was the old patch- 
work counterpane. There was the tight-clenched 
old bureau, receding atop like a bad and secret 
forehead; there was the cumbersome old table 
with twisted legs at the bedside; and.there was 
the box upon it, in which the will.had-lain. <A 
few old chairs with patch-work covers, under 
Which the more precious stuff to be preserved 
had slowly lost its quality of color without. im- 
parting pleasure to any eye, stood against the 
wall. A hard family likeness was on all these 


things. 


I have heard so 


And heand Mrs. 


‘“The room was kept like this, Rokesmith,” | 


said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘ against the son’s return. ‘In 
short, every thing in the house was kept exactly 
as it came to us for him to see and approve. 
Even now, nothing is changed but ow own 
reom below stairs that you have just left. 
When the son came home for the last time in 
his life, and for the last time in his life saw his 
father, it was most likely in this room that they 
met.” 


: sh 


x | 


D. 91 


_ As the Secretary looked all round it his eyes 
rested on a side-door in a corner. 

‘* Another staircase,” said Mr. Boffin, unlock- 
ing the door, ‘‘leading down into the yard. 
We'll go down this way, as you may like to see 
the yard, and it’s all in the road. When the 
son was a little child it was up and down these 
stairs that he mostly came and went to his fa- 
ther. He was very timid of his father. I’ve 
seen him sit on these stairs, in his shy way, poor 
child, many a time. Me and Mrs. Boftin have 
comforted him, sitting with his little book on 
these stairs, often.” 

‘‘Ah! And his poor sister too,”-said Mrs, 
Boffin. ‘‘And here’s the sunny place on the 
white wall where they one day measured one 
another. Their own little hands wrote up their 
names here only with a pencil; but the names 
are here still, and the poor dears gone forever.” 

‘*We must take care of the names, old lady,” 
said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘We must take care of the 
names. ‘They sha’n’t be rubbed out in our time, 
nor yet, if we can help it, in the time after us. 
Poor little children!” 

‘¢ Ah, poor little children!” said Mrs. Boffin. 

‘They had opened the door at the bottom of 
the staircase giving on the yard, and they stood 
in the sunlight, looking at the scrawl of the two 
unsteady childish hands two or three steps up 
the staircase. There was something in this 
simple memento of a blighted childhood, and in 
the tenderness of Mrs. Boffin, that touched the 
Secretary. 

Mr. Boffin then showed his new man of busi- 
ness the Mounds, and his own particular Mound 
which had been left him as his legacy under the 
will before he acquired the whole estate. 

see 6 would have been enough for us,” said 
Mr. Boffin, ‘in case it had pleased God to 
spare the last of those two young lives and sor- 
rowful deaths. We didn’t want the rest.” 

At the treasures of the yard, and at the out- 
side of the house, and at the detached building 
which Mr. Boffin pointed out as the residence. 
of himself and his wife during the many years ~ 
of their service, the Secretary looked with m- 
terest. It was not until Mr. Boffin had shown 
him every wonder of the Bower twice over that 
he remembered his having duties to discharge 
elsewhere. 

‘‘You have no instructions to give me, Mr. 
Boffin, in reference to this place?” 

‘‘Not any, Rokesmith, No.” 

‘“¢Might I ask, without seeming impertinent, 
whether you have any intention of selling it?” 

‘*Certainly not. In remembrance of our old 
master, our old master’s children, and our old 
service, me and Mrs. Boffin mean to keep it up 


9 


as it stands,”’ 


The Secretary’s eyes glanced with so much 
meaning in them at the Mounds that Mr. Boffin 
said, as if in answer to a remark: “ 

‘CAy, ay, that’s another thing. I may sell 
them, though I should be sorry to see the neigh- 
borhood deprived of ’em too, It'll look but a 
poor déad flat without the Mounds. Still I don’t 
say that I’m going to keep ’em always there for 
the sake of the beauty of the landscape. There’s 
no hurry about it; that’s all I say at present. 
I ain’t a scholar in much, Rokesmith, but I’m 
a pretty fair scholar in dust. I can price the 
Mounds to a fraction, and I know how they can 


92 


be best disposed of, and likewise that they take 
no harm by standing where they do. 
look in to-morrow, will you be so kind ?” 

‘“Kvery day. And the sooner I can get you 
into your new house, complete, the better you 
will be pleased, Sir?” 

‘* Well, it ain’t that I’m in a mortal hurry,” 
said Mr. Boffin; ‘‘only when you do pay people 
for looking alive, it’s as well to know that they 
are looking alive. Ain’t that your opinion ?” 

‘* Quite!’ replied the Secretary ; and so with- 
drew. 

‘* Now,” said Mr. Boffin to himsclf, subsiding 
into his regular series of turns in the yard, ‘if 
I can make it comfortable with Wegg, my af- 
fairs will be going smooth.” . 

‘The man of low cunning had, of course, ac- 
quired a mastery over the man of high sim- 
plicity. The mean man had, of course, got the 
better of the generous man. How long such 
conquests last is another matter; that they are 
achieved, is everyday experience, not even to 
be flourished away by Podsnappery itself. The 
undesigning Boftin had become so far immeshed 
by the wily Wegg that his mind misgave him he 
was a very designing man indeed in purposing 
to do more for Wegg. It seemed to him (so 
skillful was Wegg) that he was plotting darkly, 


when he was contriving to do the very thing that 


Wegg was plotting to get him todo. And thus, 
while he was mentally turning the kindest of 
kind faces on Wegg this morning, he was not 
absolutely sure but that he might somehow de- 
serve the charge of turning his back on him. 


For these reasons Mr. Boftin passed but anx- 


ious hours until evening came, and with it Mr. 
Wegg, stumping leisurely to the Roman Empire. 
At about this period Mr. Boffin had become pro- 
foundly interested in the fortunes of a great 
military leader known to him as Bully Sawyers, 
but perhaps better known to fame and easier of 
identification by the classical student, under the 
less Britannic name of Belisarius. Even this 
general’s career paled in interest-for Mr. Boffin 
before the clearing of his conscience with Wege; 
and hence, when that literary gentleman had 
according to custom eaten and drunk until he 
was all a-glow, and when he took up his book 
with the usual chirping introduction, ‘* And now, 
Mr. Boffin, Sir, we’ll decline and we’ll fall!” 
Mr. Boffin stopped him. 

“You remember, Wegg, when I first told 
you that I wanted to make a sort of. offer to 
you ?” 

‘‘Let me get on my considering cap, Sir,” 
replied that gentleman, turning the open book 
face downward. ‘* When you first told me that 
you wanted to make a sort of offer tome? Now 
let me think” (as if there were the least neces- 
sity). ‘*Yes, to be sure I do, Mr. Boffin. It 
was at my corner. To be sure it was! You 
had first asked me whether I liked your name, 
and Candor had compelled a reply in the nega- 
tive case. I little thought then, Sir, how famil- 
iar that name would come to be!” 

“I hope it will be more familiar still, Wegg.” 

“Do you, Mr. Boftin? Much obliged to you, 
I’m sure. Is it your pleasure, Sir, that we de- 
cline and we fall?” with a feint of taking up the 
book. 

“Not just yet awhile, Wegg. In fact, Ihave 
got another offer to make you.” 


Yow ll | 


Tay’ 5, * Pent, re ¥ | Se an Se 
\ ‘ . ih, ob . 
e cia \ 


| 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Mr. Wegg (who had had nothing else in his 
mind for several nights) took off his spectacles — 
with an air of bland surprise. 

‘And I hope you'll like it, Wegg.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” returned that reticent in- 
dividual. ‘I hope it may prove so. On all ae- 
counts, Iam sure.’”’ (This, as a philanthropic 
aspiration, 

‘What do you think,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘ of 
not keeping a stall, Wegg ?” 

‘*T think, Sir,” replied Wegg, ‘that I should 
like to be shown the gentleman prepared to make 
it worth my while!” 

“Here he is,” said Mr. Boffin. 

Mr. Wegg was going to say, My Benefactor, 
and had said My Bene, when a grandiloquent 
change came over him. : 

‘*No, Mr. Boffin, not you, Sir. Any body 
but you. Do not fear, Mr. Boffin, that I shall 
contaminate the premises which your gold has 
bought with my lowly pursuits. I am aware, 
Sir, that it would not become me to carry on my 
little traffic under the windows of your mansion. 
I have already thought of that, and taken my 
measures. No need to be bought out, Sir. — 
Would Stepney Fields be considered intrusive? — 
If not remote enough, I can goremoter.. In the 
words of the poet’s song, which I do not quite 
remember: : 
Thrown on the wide world, doom’d to wander and roam, — 
Bereft of my parents, bereft of a home, ; 


A stranger to something and what’s his name joy, 
Behold little Edmund the poor Peasant boy. 


’ 


—And equally,” said Mr. Wegg, repairing the é 
want of direct application in the last line, ‘*be=— 
hold myself on a similar footing!” a 
‘*Now, Wegg, Wegg, Wegg,’’ remonstrated — 

the excellent Boffin. ‘‘ You are too sensitive.” 

‘*I know I am, Sir,” returned Wegg, with 
obstinate magnanimity. ‘‘I am acquainted with — 
my faults. I always was, from a child, too sens- 
itive.” ; 
‘* But listen,” pursued the Golden Dustmans; 
‘‘hear me out, Wegg. You have taken it into — 
your head that I mean to pension you off.” : 
‘True, Sir,” returned Wegg, still with an 
obstinate magnanimity. ‘I am acquainted — 
with my faults. Far be it from me to deny 
them. I have taken it into my head.” Ae 
** But I don’t mean it.” . 
The assurance seemed hardly as comforting ‘ 
to Mr. Wegg as Mr. Boffin intended it to be. — 
Indeed, an appreciable elongation of his visage — 
might have been observed as he replied: ‘s 
** Don’t you, indeed, Sir?” 
“No,” pursued Mr. Boffin; “because that — 
would express, as I understand it, that you were > 
not going to do any thing to deserve your money. * 
But you are; you are.” e 
‘That, Sir,” replied Mr. Wegg, cheering oa 
Now, 


bravely, ‘‘is quite another pair of shoes. 
my independence as a man is again elevated. — 
Now, I no longer ites 


Weep for the hour, 

When to Boffinses bower, 

The Lord of the valley with offers came; 

Neither does the moon hide her light 

From the heavens to-night, ae 

And weep behind her clouds o’er any individual in the’ 
present Aol 

Company's shame. 


——Please to proceed, Mr. Boffin.” Bi 
‘*Thank’ee, Wegg, both for your confidence 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


in me and for your frequent dropping into poetry; 
both of which is friendly. . Well, then; my idea 
is, that you should give up your stall, and that I 
should put you into the Bower here, to keep it 
for us. It’s a pleasant spot; and a man with 
coals and candles and a pound a week might be 
in clover here.” 

“Hem! Would that man, Sir—we will say 
that man, for the purposes of argueyment;” Mr. 
Wegg made a smiling demonstration of great 
pertspicuity here ; ‘‘ would-that man, Sir, be ex- 
pected to throw any other capacity in, or would 
any other capacity be considered extra? Now 
let us (for the purposes of argueyment) suppose 
that man to be engaged as a reader: say (for 
the purposes of argueyment) in the evening. 
Would that man’s pay as a reader in the even- 
ing be added to the other amount, which, adopt- 
ing your language, we will call clover; or would 
it merge into that amount, or clover ?” 

“Well,” said Mr. Boffin, “ I suppose it would 
be added.” 

‘¢T suppose it would, Sir. You are right, Sir. 
Exactly my own views, Mr. Boffin.” Here Wegg 
rose, and balancing himself on his wooden leg, 
fluttered over his prey with extended hand. 
“‘Mr. Boffin, consider it done. Say no more, 
Sir, not a word more. My stall and I are for- 
ever parted. The collection of ballads will in 
future be reserved for private study, with the 
object of making poetry tributary’—Wegg was 
so proud of having found this word that he said 
it again, with a capital letter—‘‘ Tributary, to 
friendship. Mr. Boffin, don’t allow yourself to 
be made uncomfortable by the pang it gives me 
to part from my stock and stall. Similar emo- 
tion was undergone by my own father when 
promoted for his merits from his occupation as 
a waterman to a situation under Government. 
‘His Christian name was Thomas. His words 
at the time (I was then an infant, but so deep 
was their impression on me that I committed 
_ them to memory) were: 


- Then farewell my trim-built wherry, 
Oars and coat and badge farewell! 
Never more at Chelsea Ferry 
Shall your Thomas take a spell! 


—My father got over it, Mr. Boffin, and so shall 
I ” 


While delivering these valedictory observa- 
tions, Wegg continually disappointed Mr. Boffin 
of his hand by flourishing it in the air. He 
‘now darted it at his patron, who took it, and 
felt his mind relieved of a great weight: ob- 
serving that as they had arranged their joint 
affairs so satisfactorily, he would now be glad to 
look into those of Bully Sawyers. Which, in- 
deed, had been left overnight in a very un- 
_ promising posture, and for whose impending ex- 
pedition against the Persians the weather had 
been by no means favorable all day. 

Mr. Wegg resumed his spectacles, therefore. 


But Sawyers was not to be of the party that | 


night; for, before Wegg had found his place, 
Mrs. Boffin’s tread was heard upon the stairs, 
so unusually heavy and hurried, that Mr. Bof- 
fin would have started up at the sound, antici- 
pating some occurrence much out of the com- 
mon course, even though she had not also called 
to him in an agitated tone. 


93, 


dark staircase, panting, with a lighted candle in 
her hand. 

‘*What’s the matter,.my dear ?” 

‘*Y don't know; I don’t know; but I wish 
you’d come up stairs.” 

Much surprised, Mr. Boffin went up. stairs 
and accompanied Mrs. Boftin into their own 
room: a second large room on the same floor as 
the room in which the late proprietor had died. 
Mr. Boffin looked all round him, and saw no- 
thing more unusual than various articles of fold- 
ed linen on a large chest, which Mrs. Boffin had 
been sorting. 

‘What is it, my dear? Why, you're fright- 
ened! Yow frightened ?” 

‘‘f am not one of that sort, certainly,” said 
Mrs. Boffin, as she sat down in a chair to re- 


‘cover herself, and took her husband’s arm; ‘but 


it’s very strange!” 

‘* What is, my dear?” 

‘* Noddy, the faces of the old man and the two 
children are all over the house to-night.”’ 

**My dear?” exclaimed Mr. Boffin. But not 
without a certain uncomfortable sensation glid- 
ing down his back. 

‘*T know it must sound foolish, and yet it is : 
S80.” \ 
‘* Where did you think you saw them ?” 

**T don’t know that I think I saw them any 
where. I felt them.” : 

‘* Touched them ?”’ 

‘*No. Felt them in the air. I was sorting 
those things on the chest, and not thinking of 
the old man or the children, but singing to my- 
self} when all in a moment I felt there was a 
face growing out of the dark.” . 

‘What face?” asked her husband, looking 
about him. 

‘‘For a moment it was the old man’s, and 
then it got younger. For a moment it was both 
the children’s, and then it got older. For a 
moment it was a strange face, and then it was 
all the faces.” 

* And then it was gone?” 

“Yes; and then it was gone.” 

‘¢ Where were you then, old lady?” 

‘* Here, at the chest. Well; I got the better 
of it, and went on sorting, and went on singing 
to myself. ‘Lor!’ I says, ‘Tl think of some- 
thing else—something comfortable—and put it 
out of my head.’ So I thought of the new house 
and Miss Bella Wilfer, and was thinking at a 
great rate with that sheet there in my hand, 
when, all of a sudden, the faces seemed to be 
hidden in among the folds of it, and I let it 
drop.” 

As it still lay on the floor where it had fallen, 
Mr. Boffin picked it up and laid it on the chest. 

** And then you ran down stairs ?” 

“No. I thought I’d try another room, and 
shake it off. I says to myself, ‘I’ll go and walk 
slowly up and down the old man’s room three 
times, from end to end, and then I shall have 
conquered it.’ J went in with the candle in my 
hand; but the moment I came near the bed the 
air got thick with them.” 

** With the faces ?” 

‘“Yes, and I even felt that they were in the 


' dark behind the side-door, and on the little stair- 


case, floating away into the yard. Then I call- 


‘ed you.” 
__Mr. Boffin hurried out, and found her on the, Mr. Boftin, lost in amazement, looked at Mrs. 


atk 
94 


Boffin. Mrs. Boffin, lost in her own fluttered 
inability to make this out, looked at Mr. Boffin. 

“I think, my dear,” said the Golden Dust- 
man, ‘‘I’ll at once get rid of Wegg for the 
night, because he’s coming to inhabit the Bow- 
er, and it might be put into his head or some- 
body else’s, if he heard this and it got about, 
that the house is haunted. Whereas we know 
better. Don’t we ?” 

‘*T never had the feeling in the house be- 
fore,” sail Mrs. Boffin; ‘*‘and I have been 
about it alone at all hours of the night. I have 
been in the house when Death was in it, and I 
have been in the house when Murder was a new 
part of its adventures, and I never had a fright 
in it yet.” 

‘*And won't again, my dear,” said Mr. Bof- 
fin. ‘‘ Depend upon it, it comes of thinking and 
- dwelling on that dark spot.” 

‘*Yes; but why didn’t it come before?” asked 
Mrs. Boffin. 

This draft on Mr. Boffin’s philosophy could 
only be met by that gentleman with the remark 
that every thing that is at all. must begin at 
some time. Then, tucking his wife’s arm under 
his own, that she might not be left by herself to 
be troubled again, he descended to release Wege. 
Who, being something drowsy after his plentiful 
repast, and constitutionally of a shirking tem- 
perament, was well enough pleased to stump 
away, without doing what he had come to do, 
and was paid for doing. 

Mv. Boffin then put on his hat, and Mrs. Bof- 
fin her shawl; and the pair, further provided 
with a bunch of keys and alighted lantern, wént 
all over the dismal house — dismal every where 
but in their own two rooms—from cellar to 
cock-loft. Not resting satisfied with giving that 
much chase to Mrs. Boffin’s fancies, they pur- 
sued them into the yard and outbuildings, and 
under the Mounds. And setting the lantern, 
when all was done, at the foot of one of the 
Mounds, they comfortably trotted to and fro for 
an evening walk, to the end that the murky 
cobwebs in Mrs. Boflin’s brain might be blown 
away. 

“There, my dear!” said Mr. Boftin when they 
came in to supper. ‘‘'That was the treatment, 
you see. Completely worked round, haven’t 
you?” 

‘Yes, deary,” said Mrs. Boffin, laying aside 
her shawl. ‘I’m not nervous any more. I’m 
not a bit troubled now. I'd go any where about 
the house the same as ever. But—” 

“*Eh!” said Mr. Boffin. 

** But I’ve only to shut my eyes.” 

‘* And what then ?” 

‘* Why then,” said Mrs. Boffin, speaking with 
her eyes closed, and her left hand thoughtfully 
touching her brow, ‘then, there they are! The 
ald man’s face, and it gets younger. The two 
children’s faces, and they get older. A face 
that I don’t know. And then all the faces!” 

Opening her eyes again, and sceing her hus- 
band’s face across the table, she leaned for- 
ward to give if a pat on the check, and sat 
down to supper, declaring it to be the best face 
in the world. 


ee rrr ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. } 


CHAPTER XVI. 
MINDERS AND RE-MINDERS, 


Tue Secretary lost no time in getting to work, — 
and his vigilance. and method soon set their 
mark on the Golden Dustman’s affairs. His. 
earnestness in determining to understand the 
length and breadth and depth of every piece of © 
work submitted to him by his employer was as 
special as his dispatch in transacting it. He ac- 
cepted no information or explanation at second- 
hand, but made himself the master of every 
thing confided to him. 

One part of the Secretary’s conduct, underly- 
ing all the rest, might have been mistrusted by 
a man with a better knowledge of men than the 
Golden Dustman had. The Secretary was as 
far from being inquisitive or intrusive as Secre- 
tary could be, but nothing less than a complete 
understanding of the whole of the affairs would ) 
content him. It soon became apparent (from 
the knowledge with which he set out) that he 
must have been to the office where the ‘Harmon 
will was registered, and must have read the will. 
He anticipated Mr. Boffin’s consideration wheth- - 
er he should be advised with on this or that 
topic, by showing that he already knew of it and 
understood it. He did this with no attempt at 
concealment, seeming to be satisfied that it was 
part of his duty to have prepared himself at all. 
attainable points for its utmost discharge. 

This might—let it be repeated—have awak- 
ened some little vague mistrust in a man more 
worldly-wise than the Golden Dustman. On 
the other hand, the Secretary was discerning, 
discreet, and silent, though as zealous as if the 
affairs had been his own. He showed no love 
of patronage or the command of money, but dis. 
tinctly preferred resigning both to Mr. Boffin. 
If, in his limited sphere, he sought power, it was 
the power of knowledge; the power derivable 
from a perfect comprehension of his business. 

As on the Secretary’s face there was a name- — 
less cloud, so on his manner there was a shadow. 
equally indefinable. It was not that he was em- 
barrassed, as on that first night with the Wil- 
fer family; he was habitually unembarrassed 
now, and yet the something remained. It was 
not that his manner was bad, as on that occa- 
sion; it was now very good, as being modest, 
gracious, and ready. Yet the something never 
left it. It has been written of men who have 
undergone a cruel captivity, or who have passed 
through a terrible strait, or who in self-pres- 
ervation have killed a defenseless fellow-creat- 
ure, that the record thereof has never faded from 
their countenances until they died. Was there 
any such record here? 4 

He established a temporary office for himself 
in the new house, and all went well under his 
hand, with one singular exception. He mani- 
festly objected to communicate with Mr. Bof- 
fin’s solicitor. Two or three times, when there 
was some slight occasion for his doing so, he ‘ 
transferred the task to Mr. Boffin; and his eva- 
sion of it soon becdme so curiously apparent, 
that Mr. Boftin spoke to him on the subject of | 
his reluctance. ¥ 

‘It is so,” the Secretary admitted. ‘*I would 
rather not.” a 

Had he any personal objection to Mr. Light- 
wood? ro Se 


—©T don’t know him.” * 
Had he suffered from lawsuits ? 


‘*Not more than other men,” was his short 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | 


95. 


if 


himself, in the tone in which he had said to his 


eniployer, ‘7 don’t think it promises !”” 
Among his first occupations the pursuit of 


answer. . | that orphan wanted by Mrs. Boffin held a con- 
Was he prejudiced against the race of law-| spicuous place. From the earliest moment of 
yers? j his engagement he showed a particular desire 
“No. But while I am in your employment, | to .please her, and, knowing her to have this 


‘Sir, I would rather be excused from going be- 
tween the lawyer and the client. Of course if 
you press it, Mr. Boffin, I am ready to comply. 
But I should take it as a great favor if you would 
not press it without urgent occasion.” 

Now, it could not be said that thete was urg- 
ent occasion, for Lightwood retained no other 
affairs in his hands than such as still lingered 
and languished about the undiscovered criminal, 
and such as arose out of the purchase of the 
house. Many other matters that might have 
traveled to him now stopped short at the Secre- 
tary, under whose administration they were far 
more expeditiously and satisfactorily disposed of 
than they would have been if they had got into 
Young Blight’s domain. This the Golden Dust- 
man quite understood. Even the matter immedi- 
ately in hand was of very little moment as requir- 
ing personal appearance on the Secretary’s part, 
for it amounted to no more than this:—The 
death of Hexam rendering the sweat of the hon- 
est man’s brow unprofitabie, the honest man had 
shufflingly declined to mpisten his brow for no- 
thing, with that severe exertion which is known 


‘object at heart, he followed it up with unweary- 
ing alacrity and interest, i 
Mr. and Mrs. Milvey had found their search 
a difficult one. Either an eligible orphan was 
of the wrong sex (which almost always happen- 
ed), or was too old, or too young, or too sickly, 
-or too dirty, or too much accustomed to the 
streets, or too likely to run away; or it was 
found impossible to complete the philanthropic 
transaction without buying the orphan. For, 
the instant it became known that any body 
wanted the orphan, up started some affection- 
ate relative of the orphan who put a price upon 
the orphan’s head. The suddenness of an or- 
phan’s rise in the market was not to be“paral- 
leled by the maddest records of the Stock Ex- 
change. He would be at five thousand per 
cent. discount out at nurse making a mud pie 
at nine in the morning, and (being inquired 
| for) would go up to five thousand per cent. pre- 
mium before noon. The market was “rigged” 
in various artful ways. Counterfeit stock got 
into circulation. Parents boldly represented 
themselves as dead, and brought their orphans 


with them. Genuine orphan stock was surrep- 
_titionsly withdrawn from the market. It being 
announced, by emissaries posted for the pur- 
pose, that Mr. and Mrs. Milvey were coming 


in legal circles as swearing your way through a 
‘stone-wall. Consequently, that new light had 
gone sputtering out. But the airing of the old 
‘facts had led some one concerned to suggest that 


it would be well before they were reconsigned 
to their gloomy shelf—now probably forever— 
to induce or compel that Mr. Julius Handford 
to reappear and be questioned. And all traces 
of Mr. Julins-Handford being lost, Lightwood 
‘now referred to his client for authority to seek 
him through public advertisement. 

**Does your objection go to writing.te-Light- 
wood, Rokesmith ?” 

** Not in the least, Sir.” 

“Then perhaps you’ll write him 
say he is free to do what he likes. Idon’t think 
it promises.” 

“‘T don’t think it promises,” said the Secre- 
tary. 

** Still, he may do what he likes.” 

“JT will write immediately. Let me thank 


you for so considcrately yielding to my disin- | 


clination. It may seem less unreasonable if I 
avow to you that although I don’t know Mr. 
Lightwood, I have a disagreeable association 
connected with him. | It is not his fault; he is 
not at all to blame for it, and does not even 
_Know my name.” 

Mr. Boffin dismissed the matter with a nod 
or two. ‘The letter was written, and next day 
Mr. Julius Handford was advertised for. He 
was requested to place himself in communica- 
tion with Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, as a possi- 
ble means of furthering the ends of justice, and 
.& reward was offered to any one acquainted 
with his whereabout who would communicate 
the same to the said Mr. Mortimer Lightwood 
at his office in the Temple. Every day for six 
weeks this advertisement appeared at the head 
of all the newspapers, and every day for six 
_Weeks the Secretary, when he saw it, said to 


a line, and 


down the court, orphan scrip would be instant- 
ly concealed, and production refused, save on a 
condition usually stated by the brokers as ‘‘a 
,gallon of beer.” Likewise, fluctuations of a 
wild and South-Sea nature were occasioned by 
| orphan-holders keeping back; and then rushing 
into the market a dozen together. But the 
uniform principle at the root of all these vari- 
ous operations was bargain and sale; -and that 
principle could not be recognized by Mr. and 
Mrs. Milvey. 

At length tidings were received by the Rev- 
erend Frank of a charming orphan to be found 
| at Brentford. One of the deceased parents (late 
his parishioners) had a poor widowed grandmo- 
ther in that agreeable town, and she, Mrs. Betty 
| Higden, had carried off the orphan with mater- 
nal care, but could not afford to keep him. 

The Secretary proposed to Mrs. Bi ffin, either 
to go down himself and take a preliminary sur- 
vey of this orphan, or to drive her down, that 
she might at once form her own opinion. irs. 
Boffin preferring the latter course, they set off 
one morning in a hired phacton, conveying the 
hammer-headed young man behind them. 

The abode of Mrs. Betty Higden was not easy 
to find, lying in such complicated back settle- 


ments of muddy Brentford that they left their | 


equipage at the sign of the Three Magpies, and 
went in search of it on foot. After many in- 
quiries and defeats, there was pointed out to 
them in a lane, a very small cottage residence, 
with a board across ihe open doorway, hooked 
on to which board by the arm-pits was a young 
gentleman of tender years, angling for mud with 
a headless wooden horse and line. In this young 


| sporisman, distinguished by a crisply curling au- . 


ms 


Wa. 


FZ 


Oe 


AA 
Woop 
WY. 
OM, 4 


Sh i iP 
NA 
La 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


' MRS. BOFFIN DISCOVERS AN ORPHAN. 


burn head and a blnff countenance, the Secre- 
tary descried the orphan. 

It unfortunately happened as they quickened 
their pace, that the orphan, lost to considera- 
tions of personal safety in the ardor of the mo- 
ment, overbalanced himself and toppled into the 
street. Being an orphan of a chubby conforma- 
tion, he then took to rolling, and had rolled into 
the gutter before they conld come up. From 
the gutter he was rescued by John Rokesmith, 
and thus the first meeting with Mrs. Higden was 
inaugurated by the awkward circumstance of 
their being in possession—one would say at first 
sight unlawful possession—of the orphan, upside 
down and purple in the countenance. The board 
across the doorway too, acting as a trap equally 
for the feet of Mrs. Higden coming out, and the 


’ . 
- 


in, greatly increased the difficulty of the situa- 
tion: to which the cries of the orphan imparted 
| a lugubrious and inhuman character. 

At first, it was impossible to explain, on ac- 
‘count of the orphan’s ‘‘holding his breath:” a 
most terrific proceeding, superinducing in the 
‘orphan lead-color rigidity and a deadly silence, 
‘compared with which his cries were music yield- 
ing the height of enjovment. But as he grad- 
ually recovered, Mrs. Boffin gradually introduced 
back to Mrs. Betty Higden’s home. 

It was.then perceived to be a small home with 
a large mangle in it, at the handle of which ma- 


herself, and smiling peace was gradually wooed 


chine stood a very long boy, with a very little 


head, and an open mouth of disproportionate ~ 


feet of Mrs. Boffin and John Rokesmith going 
: 


, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


capacity that seemed to assist his eyes in staring 
at the visitors. In a corner below the mangle, 
on a couple of stools, sat two very little children; 
a boy and a girl; and when the very long boy, 
in an interval of staring, took a turn at the man- 
gle, it was alarming to see how it lunged itself 
at those two innocents, like a catapult designed 
for their destruction, harmlessly retiring when 
within an inch of their heads. The room was 
clean and neat. It had a brick floor, and a 
window of diamond panes, and a flounce hang- 
ing below the chimney-piece, and strings nailed 
from bottom to top outside the window, on which 
scarlet beans were to grow in the coming season 
if the Fates were propitious. However propi- 
tious they might have been in the seasons that 
were gone to Betty Higden in the matter of 
beans, they had not been very favorable in the 


matter of coins ; for it was easy to see that she 


was poor. 

She was one of those old women, was Mrs. 
Betty Higden, who by dint of an indomitable 
purpose and a strong constitution fight out many 
years, though each year has come with its new 
knock-down blows fresh to the fight against her, 
wearied by it; an active old woman, with a 
bright dark eye and a resolute face, yet quite a 
tender creature too; not a logically-reasoning 
woman, but God is good, and hearts may count 
in Heaven as high as heads. 

‘Yes, sure!” said she, when the business was 
opened, ‘‘ Mrs. Milvey had the kindness to write 
to me, ma'am, and I got Sloppy to read it. It 
was a pretty letter. But she’s an affable lady.” 

The visitors glanced at the long boy, who 
seemed to indicate by a broader stare of his 
mouth and eyes that in him Sloppy stood con- 
fessed. 

*“‘For I ain’t, you must know,” said Betty, 
“much of a hand at reading writing-hand, 
though I can read my Bible and most print. 


And I do love a newspaper. You mightn’t think | 
it, but Sloppy is a beautiful reader of a newspa-} 
fthere. Come to us and find us all a-dying, and 
Eset a light to us all where we lie, and let us all 
sblaze away with the house into a heap of cinders, 
Fsooner than move a corpse of us there!” 


per. He-do the Police in different voices.” 
The visitors’ again considered it a point of 

politeness to look at Sloppy, who, looking at 

them, suddenly threw back his head, extended 


his mouth to its utmost width, and laughed loud }* 


and long. At this the two innocents, with their 
brains in that apparent danger, laughed, and 
Mrs. Higden laughed, and the orphan laughed, 
and then the visitors laughed. Which was more 
cheerful than intelligible. 

Then Sloppy seeming to be seized with an in- 
dustrious mania or fury, turned to at the man- 
gle, and impelled it at the heads of the innocents 
With such a creaking and rumbling that Mrs, 
Higden stopped him. 

‘The gentlefolks can’t hear themselves speak, 
Sloppy. Bide a bit, bide a bit!” 

‘‘¥s that the dear child in your lap?” said 
Mrs. Boflin. 

‘*Yes, ma’am, this is Johnny.” 

‘¢ Johnny, too!” cried Mrs. Boffin, turning to 
the Secretary ; ‘‘already Johnny! Only one of 
the two names left to give him! He’s a pretty 
boy.” 

With his chin tucked down in his shy child- 
ixh manner, he was Jooking furtively, at Mrs. 
Boffin out of his blue eyes, and reaching his fat 
dimpled hand up to the lips of the old woman, 
who was kissing it by times. 


|old woman. 


+ ae 
3 97 


‘ Yes, ma’am, he’s a pretty boy, he’s a dear 
darling boy, he’s the child of my own last left 
daughter’s daughter. But she’s gone the way 
of all the rest.” 

“'Fhose are not his brother and sister?” said 
Mrs. Boftin. 

*-QOh, dear no, ma’am. Those are Minders.” 

*¢ Minders ?” the Secretary repeated. 

‘‘Left to be Minded, Sir. I keep a Minding- 
School. I can take only three, on account of 
the Mangle. But I love children, and Four- 
pence a week is Four-pence. Come here, Tod- 
dles and Poddles.” 

Toddles was the pet-name of the boy ; Poddles 
of the girl. At their little unsteady pace they 
came across the floor, hand in hand, as if they 
were traversing an extremely difficult road inter- 
sected by brooks, and, when they had had their 
heads patted by Mrs. Betty Higden, made lunges 
at the orphan, dramatically representing an at- 
tempt to bear him, crowing, into captivity and 
slavery. All the three children enjoyed this to 
a delightful extent, and the sympathetic Sloppy 
again laughed long and loud. When it was dis- 
creet to stop the play, Betty Higden said ‘‘Go 
to your seats Toddles and Poddles,” and they 
returned hand in hand across country, seeming 
to find the brooks rather swollen by late rains. 

*¢ And Master—or Mister—Sloppy ?” said the 
Secretary, in doubt whether he was man, boy, 
or what. 

‘¢ A Jove-child,” returned Betty Higden, drop- 
ping her voice; ‘‘parents never known; found 
in the street. He was brought up in the—” 
with. a shiver of repugnance, ‘‘—the House.”’ 

‘¢'The Poor-house ?” said the Secretary. 

Mrs. Higden set that resolute old face of hers, 
and darkly nodded yes. 

‘¢You dislike the mention of it.” 

‘Dislike the mention of it?” answered the 
‘Kill me sooner than take me 
there. Throw this pretty child under cart-horses’ 
feet and a loaded wagon sooner than take him 


a" 
- 


A surprising spirit in this lonely woman after 
so many years of hard working, and hard living, 
my Lords and Gentlemen and Honorable Boards! 
What is it that we call it in our grandiose 
speeches? British independence, rather per- 
verted? Is that, or something like it, the ring 
of the cant? 

‘‘Do I never read in the newspapers,” said 
thedame, fondling the child—‘‘ God help me and 
the like of me!—how the worn-out people that 
do come down to that, get driven from post to 
pillar and pillar to post, a-purpose to tire them 
out! Do I never read how they are put off, put 
off, put off—how they are grudged, grudged, 
grudged, the shelter, or the doctor, or the drop 


of physic, or the bit of bread? Do I never read 


how they grow heart-sick of it and give it up, 
after having let themselves drop so low, and how 
they after all die out for want of help? Then I 
say, I hope I can die as well as another, and I'll 
die without that disgrace.” 

Absolutely impossible my Lords and Gentle- 
men and Honorable Boards, by any stretch of 
legislative wisdom to set these perverse people 
right in their logic? 


ae 
98 ie us 

‘Johnny, my pretty,” continued old Betty, 
caressing the child, and rather mourning over it 
than speaking to it, ‘‘your old Granny Betty is 
nigher fourscore year than threescore and ten. 
She never begged nor had a penny of the Union 
money in all her life. She paid scot and she 
paid lot when she had money to pay; she work- 
ed when she could, and she starved when she 
must. You pray that your Granny may have 
strength enough left her at the last (she’s strong 
for an old one, Johnny) to get up from her bed 
and run and hide herself, and swown to death in 
a hole, sooner than fall into the hands of those 
Cruel Jacks we read of, that dodge and drive, 
and worry and weary, and scorn and shame, the 
decent poor.” 

A brilliant suecess, my Lords and Gentlemen 
and Honorable Boards, to have brought it to this 
in the minds of the best of the poor! Under sub- 
mission, might it be worth thinking of, at any 
odd time? 

The fright and abhorrence that Mrs. Betty 
Higden smoothed out of her strong face as she 
ended this diversion showed how seriously she 
had meant it. 

‘¢ And does he work for you?” asked the Sec- 
retary, gently bringing the discourse back to 
Master or Mister Sloppy. 

*¢ Yes,” said Betty, with a good-humored smile 
and nod of the head. ‘‘ And well too.” 

*¢ Does he live here ?” 

‘‘He lives more here than any where. He 
was thought to be no better than a Natural, and 
first come to me as a Minder. I made interest 
with Mr. Blogg the Beadle to have him as a 
Minder, seeing him by chance up at church, and 
thinking I might do something with him. For 
he was a weak. rickety creetur then.” 
~ “Ts he called by his right name ?” 

‘Why, you see, speaking quite correctly, he 
has no right name. JI always understood he took 
his name from being found on a Sloppy night.” 

‘* He seems an amiable fellow.” 

‘* Bless you, Sir, there’s not a bit of him,” re- 
turned Betty, ‘‘that’s not amiable. So you may 
judge how amiable he is, by running your eye 
along his heighth.” 

Of an ungainly make was Sloppy. ‘Too much 
of him longwise, too little of him broadwise, and 
too many sharp angles of him angle-wise. One 
of those shambling male human creatures, born 
to be indiscreetly candid in the revelation of 
buttons; every button he had about him glaring 
at the public to a quite preternatural extent. A 
considerable capital of knee and elbow and wrist 
and ankle had Sloppy, and he didn’t know how 
to dispose of it to the best advantage, but was 
always investing it in wrong securities, and so 
getting himself into embarrassed circumstances. 
Full-Private Number One in the Awkward Squad 
of the rank and file of life was Sloppy, and yet 
had his glimmering notions of standing true to 
the Colors. 

‘‘ And now,” said Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘ concerning 
Johnny.” ~ 

As Johnny, with his chin tucked in and his 
lips pouting, reclined in Betty’s lap, concentrating 
his blue eyes on the visitors and shading them 
from observation with a dimpled arm, old Betty 
took one of his fresh fat hands in her withered 
right, and fell to gently beating it on her with- 
ered left. 


‘Betty. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘Yes, ma’am. Concerning J ohnny.” 

**If you trust the dear child to me,’ 
Boffin, with a face inviting trust, 
the best of homes, the best of care, the best of 
education, the best of friends. Please God Ns 
will be a true good mother to him!” 

‘¢T am thankful to vou, ma’am, and the dear 
child would be thankful if he was old enough to 
understand.” Still lightly beating the little hand 
upon her own. ‘I wouldn’t stand in the dear 
child’s light, not if I-had all my life before me 
instead of a very little of it. But I hope you 
won't take it ill that I cleave to the child closer 
than words can tell, for he’s the last living thing 
left me.” 

‘*Take it ill, my dear soul? Is it likely? 
And you so tender of him as to bring him home 
here !”” 

‘*T have seen,” said Betty, still with that light 
beat upon her hard rough hand, ‘‘so many. of 
them on my lap. And they are all gone but this 
one! I am ashamed to seem so selfish, but I 
don’t really mean it. It'll be the making of his 


fortune, and he’ll be a gentleman when I am. 


dead. J-—I—don’t know what comes over me, 
J—try against it. Don’t notice me!” The light 
beat stopped, the resolute mouth gave way, and 
the fine strong old face broke up into Weakness 
and tears. 

Now, greatly to the relief of the visitors, the 
emotional Sloppy no sooner beheld his patroness 
in this condition, than, throwing back his’ head 
and throwing open his mouth, he lifted up his 
veice and bellowed. This alarming note of scme- 
thing wrong instantly terrified 'Toddles and Pcud- 
dles, who were no sooner heard to roar surpris- 


ingly, than Johnny, curving himself the wrong . 


way and striking out at Mrs. Boffin with a pair 
of indifferent shoes, became a prey to despair. 
The absurdity of the situation put its pathos to 
the rout. Mrs. Betty Higden was herself in a 
moment, and brought them all to order with 
that speed, that Sloppy, stopping short in a poly- 
syllabic bellow, transferred his energy to the 
mangle, and had taken several penitential turns 
before he could be stopped. 

‘¢There, there, there!’ said Mrs. Boffin, al- 
most regarding her kind self as the most ruthless 
of women. ‘‘ Nothing is going to be done. No- 
body need be frightened. We’re all comforta- 
ble; ain’t we, Mrs. Higden ?” 

‘¢Sure and certain we are,” returned Betty. 

‘*And there really is no hurry, you know,” 
said Mrs. Boffin, in a lower voice. ‘‘ Take time 


to think of it, my good creature!” 


‘*Don’t you fear me no more, ma’am,” said 
‘<I thought of it for good yesterday. I 
don’t know what come over me just now, but 
it'll] never come again.’ 

‘Well, then; Johnny shall have more time 
to think of | returned Mrs. Boffin ; ‘‘ the pret- 
ty child shall have time to get used to it. 
you'll get him more used to it, if you think well 
of it; won’t you?” 

Betty undertook that, cheerfully and readily. 

‘¢Lor,’”’ cried Mrs. Boffin, looking radiantly 
about her, ‘we want to make every body hap- 
py, not dismal!—And perhaps you wouldn't 
mind letting me know how used to it you beat 
to get, and how it all goes on ?” 

**T’ll send Sloppy,” said Mrs. Higden. 


‘* And this gentleman who has come with me 


said Mrs, 


“He shall have’ 


And 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ae 


will pay him for his trouble,” said Mrs. Boffin. 
‘¢And Mr. Sloppy, whenever you come to my 
house, be sure you never go away without hay- 
ing had a good dinner of meat, beer, vegetables, 
and pudding.” 

This still further brightened the face of affairs; 
for, the highly sympathetic Sloppy, first broad- | 
ly staring and grinning, and then roaring with 
laughter, Toddles and Poddles followed suit, and 
Johnny trumped the trick. . T and P considering 
these favorable circumstances for the resumption 
of that dramatic descent upon Johnny, again 
came across country hand in hand upon a buc- 
caneering expedition; and this having been 
fought out in the chimney-corner behind Mrs. 
Higden’s chair, with great valor on both sides, 
those desperate pirates returned hand in hand 
to their stools, across the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. 

.**You must tell me what I can do for you, 
Betty my friend,” said Mrs. Boffin, confidential- 
ly, ‘‘if not” to-day, next time.” 

““'Thank you all the same, ma’am, but I want 
nothing for myself. I can work. I'm strong. 
Lcan walk twenty mile if ['m put to it.” Old 
Betty was proud, and said it with a sparkle in 
her bright eyes. 

““Yes, but there are some little comforts that 
you wouldn’ t be the worse for,” returned Mrs. 
Boffin. Bless ye, I wasn’t born a lady any 
more than you.” 

“Tt seems to me,”’ said Betty, smiling, ‘‘ that 
you were a born lady, and a true one, or there 
never was a lady born. But I couldn’t take 
any thing from you, my dear. I never did take 
any thing from any one. It ain’t that I’m not 
grateful, but 1 love to earn it better.” 

*¢ Well, well!” returned Mrs. Boffin. ‘I only 
spoke of little things, or I wouldn’t have taken 
the liberty.” 

Betty put her visitor’s hand to her lips, in ac- 
knowledgment of the delicate answer. Won- 
derfully upright her figure was, and wonderful- 
ly self-reliant her look, as, standing facing her 
visitor, she explained herself further. 

** If I could have kept the dear child, without 
the dread that’s always upon me of his coming 
to that fate [ have spoken of, I could never have 
parted: with him, even to you. For I love him, 
I love him, I love him! I love my husband 
long dead and gone, in him; I love my children 
dead and gone, in him; I love my young and 
hopeful days dead and gone, in him. I couldn’t 
sell that love, and look you in your bright kind 
face, It’s a free gift. I am in want of nothing. 
_ When my strength fails me, if I can but die out 
quick and quiet, I shall be quite content. I 
have stood between my dead and that shame I 
have spoken of, and it has been kept off from 
every one of them. Sewed into my gown,” with 
her hand upon her breast, ‘‘is just enough to 
lay me in the grave. Only see that it’s rightly 
spent, so as I may rest free to the last from that 
cruelty and disgrace, and you'll have done much 
more than a little thing for me, and all that in 
this present world my. heart is set upon.” 

Mrs. Betty Higden’s visitor pressed her hand. 
There was no more breaking up of the strong 
old face into weakness. My Lords and Gentle- 
men and Honorable Boards, it really was as 
composed as our own a. Faces, and almost as dig- 
nificd. 


99 


| And now, Johnny was to be inveigled into 
occlipring-ae tempor ary position on Mis. Botfin’s 
‘lap. It was not-until he had-been- piqued.into 
conipetition with the two diminutive Minders, 
by seeing them successively raised to that post 
and retire from it without injury; that he could 
be by any means induced to leave Mrs. Betty 
Higden’ S skirts ; toward which he exhibited, 
even when in Mrs. Boffin’s embrace, strong 
yearnings, spiritual and bodily ; the former ex- 
pressed in a very gloomy visage, the latter in 
extended arms. However, a general descrip- 
tion of the toy-wonders lurking in Mrs. Boffin’s 
house, so far conciliated this worldly-minded 
orphan as to induce him to stare at her frown- 
ingly, with a fist in his mouth, and even at length 
to chuckle when a richly- caparisoned horse on 
wheels, with a miraculous gift of cantering to 
cake-shops, was mentioned. This sound being 
taken up by the Minders, swelled into a raptur- 
ous trio which gave general satisfaction. 

So the interview was considered very success- 
ful, and Mrs. Boffin was pleased, and all were 
satisfied. Not least of all, Sloppy, who under- 
took to conduct the visitors back by the best way 
‘to the Three Magpies, and whom the hammer- 
headed young man much despised. 

This piece of business thus put in train, the 
Secretary drove Mrs. Boffin back to the Bower, 
and found employment for himself at the new 
house until evening. Whether, when evening 
came, he took a way to his lodgings that led 
through fields, with any design of finding Miss 
Bella Wilfer in those fields, is not:so certain as 
that she regularly walked there at that hour. 

And, moreover, it is certain that there she 
was. 

No longer in mourning, Miss Bella was dress- 
ed in as pretty colors as she’ cauld muster. There 
is no-denying that she was as pretty as they, and 
that she and the colors went very prettily to- 
gether. She was reading as she walked, and of 
course it is to be inferred, from her showing no 
knowledge of Mr. Rokesmith’s approach, ‘that 
she did not know he was approaching. 

‘* Kh?” said Miss Bella, raising her eyes fr om 
her book, when he stopped before her. ‘Oh! 
It’s you. » 

“‘Only I. A fine evening!” 

‘“Is it?” said Bella, looking coldly round. 
'**T suppose it is, now you mention it. I have 
not been thinking of the evening.” 

*¢So intent upon your book ?” 

‘¢ Ye-e-es,” replied Bella, with a drawl of in- 
difference. 

‘¢ A love-story, Miss Wilfer fe: 

‘*Qh dear no, or I shouldn’t be reading it. 
It’s more about money than any thing else.” 

‘*And does it say that money is better than 
any thing?” 

‘Upon my word,” returned Bella, ‘‘I forget 
what it says, but you can find out for yourself, 
if you like, Mr. Rokesmith. I don’t want it any 
more.” | 

The Secretary took the book—she had flutter- 
ed the leaves as if it were a fan—and walked 
beside her. 

‘‘T am charged with a message for you, Miss 
‘Wilfer.” 

‘Impossible, I think!” said Bella, with an- 
other drawl. 

‘‘From Mrs. Boffin. 


She desired me to as- 


100 


or two at furthest.” _ 

Bella turned her head toward him, with her 
pretty insolent eyebrows raised, and her eyelids 
drooping. As much as to say, ‘‘How did you 
come by the message, pray ?” 

‘*T have been waiting for an opportunity of 
telling you that Iam Mr. Boffin’s Secretary ?” 

‘‘T am as wise as ever,” said Miss Bella, lofti- 
ly, ‘‘ for I don’t know what a Secretary is. Not 
that it signifies.” 

“*Not at all.” 

A covert glance at her face, as he walked be- 
side her, showed him that she had not expected 
his ready assent to that proposition. 

‘“'Then are you going to be always there, Mr. 
Rokesmith ?” she inquired, as if that would be a 
drawback. 

** Always? No, Very much there? Yes.” 

‘* Dear me!” drawled Bella, in a tone of mor- 
tification. 

‘*But my position there as Secretary will be 
very different from yours as’ guest. You will 
know little or nothing about me. I shall trans- 
act the business: you will transact the pleasure. 
I-shall have my salary to earn; you will have 
nothing to do but to enjoy and attract.” 

“Attract, Sir?” said Bella, again with her 
eyebrows raised, and her eyelids drooping. ‘‘I 
don’t understand you.” 

Without replying on this point, Mr. Rokesmith 
went on. 

“Excuse me; when I first saw you in your 
black dress—” 

(“ There!” was Miss Bella’s mental excla- 
mation. ‘‘What did I say to them at home? 
Every body noticed that ridiculous mourning.”) 

‘* When I first saw you in your black dress, I 
was at a loss to account for that distinction be- 
tween yourself and your family. I hope it was 
not impertinent to speculate upon it ?” 

‘‘T hope not, I am sure,” said Miss Bella, 
haughtily. ‘‘ But you ought to know best how 
you speculated upon it.” 

Mr. Rokesmith inclined his head in a depre- 
catory manner, and went on. 

“Since I have been intrusted with Mr. Bof- 
fin’s affairs, 1 have necessarily come to~under- 
stand the little mystery. I venture to remark 
that I feel persuaded that much of -your- loss 
may be repaired. I speak, of course, merely of 
wealth, Miss Wilfer. ‘The loss of a perfect 
stranger, whose worth, or worthlessness, I can 


not estimate — nor you either—is beside the. 


question. But this excellent gentleman and 
lady are so full of simplicity, so full of gener- 
Osity, so inclined toward you, and so desirous 
to—how shall I express it ?—to make amends 
for their good fortune, that you have only to re- 
spond.” 

As he watched her with another covert look, 
he saw a certain ambitious triumph in her face 
which no assumed coldness could conceal. 

‘¢As we have been brought under one roof. 
by an accidental combination of circumstances, 
which oddly extends itself to the new relations 
before us, I have taken the liberty of saying 
these few words. You don’t consider them in- 
trusive I hope ?” said the Secretary, with defer- 
ence. 

‘*Really, Mr. Rokesmith, I can’t say what 


/ 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


sure you of the pleasure she has in-finding that it consider them,” returned the young lady. — 
she will be ready to receive you in another.week.|'*‘ They are perfectly new to me, and may be 
founded altogether on your own imagination.” 


‘* You will see.” 

These same fields were opposite the Wilfer 
premises. The discreet Mrs. Wilfer now look- 
ing out of window and beholding her daughter 
in conference with her lodger, instantly tied up 
her head and came out for a casual walk. 

‘*T have been telling Miss Wilfer,” said John 
Rokesmith, as the majestic lady came stalking 
up, “that I have become, by a curious chance, 
Mr. Boffin’s Secretary or man of business.” 

‘‘T have not,” returned Mrs. Wilfer, waving 
her gloves in her chronic state of dignity, and 
vague ill-usage, ‘“‘the honor of any intimate 
acquaintance with Mr. Boffin, and it is not for 


me to congratulate that gentleman on the ac-- 


quisition he has made.” 

*¢ A poor one enough,” said Rokesmith. 

‘Pardon me,” returned Mrs. Wilfer, ‘‘ the 
merits of Mr. Boffin may be highly distinguished 
—may be more distinguished than the counte- 
nance of Mrs. Boffin would imply—but it were 
the insanity of humility to deem him worthy of 
a better assistant.” 

**You are very good. I have also been telling 
Miss Wilfer that she is expected very shortly at 
the new residence in town.” 


‘* Having tacitly consented,” said Mrs, Wilfer, — 


with a grand shrug of her shoulders, and an- 
other wave of her gloves, ‘‘ to my child’s accept- 
ance of the proffered attentions of Mrs. Boffin, 
I interpose no objection.” ; 

Here Miss Bella offered the remonstrance: 
* Don’t talk nonsense, ma, please.”’ 

‘** Peace !” said Mrs. Wilfer. 

‘No, ma, I am not going to be made so ab- 
surd. Interposing objections !” 

**T say,” repeated Mrs. Wilfer, with a vast 
access of grandeur, ‘‘ that I am not going to in- 
terpose objections. If Mrs. Boftin (to whose 
countenance no disciple of Lavater could pos- 
sibly for a single moment subscribe),” with a 
shiver, ‘‘seeks to illuminate her new residence 
in town with the attractions of a child of mine, 


I am content that she should be favored by the 


company of a child of mine.” 


{ 


ee oe 


= 


i 


— 


4 


eins 


‘*You use the word, ma’am, I have myself: = 


used,” said Rokesmith, with a glance at Bella, 
‘‘when you speak of Miss Wilfer’s attractions 
there.” 


‘*Pardon me,” returned Mrs. Wilfer, with | a 


dreadful solemnity, ‘‘ but 1 had not finished.” 
‘¢ Pray excuse me.” 


**T was about to say,’’ pursued Mrs. Wilfer, - 


who clearly had not had the faintest idea of say- 
ing any thing more: ‘‘ that when I use the term 
attractions, I do so with the qualification that I 
do not mean it in any way whatever.” 


The excellent lady delivered this luminous 


elucidation of her views with an air of greatly 
obliging her hearers and greatly distinguishing 
herself. Whereat Miss Bella laughed a scorn- 
ful little laugh, and said: | 

“‘ Quite enough about this, I am sure, on all 
sides. Have the goodness, Mr. Rokesmith, to 
give my love to Mrs. Boffin—” 

‘¢Pardon me!” cried Mrs. Wilfer. 
pliments.” Y 

‘*Love!” repeated Bella, with a little stamp 
of her foot. ; 


‘¢ Com- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


**No!” said Mrs. Wilfer, monotonously. 
*¢ Compliments.” 

(‘*Say Miss Wilfer’s love, and Mrs. Wilfer’s 
compliments,” the Secretary proposed, as a com- 
promise. ) 

** And I shall be very glad to come when she 
is ready for me. ‘The sooner the better.” 

**One last word, Bella,” said Mrs. Wilfer, 


‘‘before descending to the family apartment. 


I trust that as a child of mine you will ever be 
sensible that it will be graceful in you, when as- 
sociating with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin. upon equal 
terms, to remember that the Secretary, Mr. 
Rokesmith, as your father’s lodger, has a claim 
on your good word.” 

The condescension with which Mrs. Wilfer de- 
livered this proclamation of patronage was as 
wonderful as the swiftness with which the lodger 
had lost caste in the Secretary. He smiled as 


the mother retired down stairs; but his face fell, 


as the daughter followed. 

‘*So insolent, so trivial, so capricious, so mer- 
cenary, so careless, so hard to touch, so hard to 
turn!” he said, bitterly. 

And added as he went up stairs. 
80 pretty, so pretty!” 

And added presently, as he walked to and fro 
in hisroom. ‘‘ And if she knew!’ 

She knew that he was shaking the house by 
his walking to and fro; and she declared it an- 
other of the miseries of being poor, that you 
couldn’t get rid of a haunting Secretary, stump 
—stump—stumping overhead in the dark, like 
a Ghost. 


*¢ And yet 


BESTE ARES SRS ERE ALS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
A DISMAL SWAMP. 


AND now, in the blooming summer days, be- 
hold Mr, and Mrs. Boffin established in the-em- 
inently aristocratic family mansion, and behold 
all manner of crawling, creeping, fluttering, and 
buzzing creatures, attracted by the gold dust of 
the Golden Dustman! 

Foremost among those leaving cards at the 
eminently aristocratic door before it is quite 
painted are the Veneerings: out of breath, one 
might imagine, from the impetuosity of their 
rush to the eminently aristocratic steps. One 
-copper-plate Mrs. Veneering, two copper-plate 
Mr. Veneerings, and a connubial copper-plate 
Mr. and Mrs. Veneering, requesting the honor 
of Mr. and Mrs, Boffin’s company at dinner 
with the utmost Analytical solemnities. The 
* enchanting Lady Tippins leaves acard. Twem- 
_ low leavescards. A tall custard-colored phaeton 
tooling up in a solemn manner leaves four cards; 
to wit, a couple of Mr. Podsnaps, a Mrs. Pod- 
snap, and a Miss Podsnap. All the world and 
his wife and daughter leave cards. Sometimes 
the world’s wife has so many daughters that her 
card reads rather like a Miscellaneous Lot at an 
Auction; comprising Mrs. Tapkins, Miss Tap- 
kins, Miss.Frederica Tapkins, Miss Antonina 
Tapkins, Miss Malvina Tapkins, and Miss Eu- 
phemia Tapkins; at the same time, the same 
lady leaves the card of Mrs. Henry George Al- 
fred Swoshle, née Tapkins: also, a card, Mrs. 
Tapkins at Home, Wednesdays, Music, Portland 
Place. 

Miss Bella Wilfer becomes_an inmate, for an 


/ 


101 


indefinite period, of the eminently aristocratic 
dwelling. Mrs. Boffin bears Miss Bella away 
to her Milliner’s and Dress-maker’s, and she gets 
beautifully. dressed. The Vencerings find with 
swift remorse that they have omitted to invite 
Miss Bella Wilfer. One Mrs. Veneering and 
one Mr. and Mrs. Veneering requesting that ad- 
ditional honor, instantly do penance in white 
cardboard on the hall table. Mrs, Tapkins like- 
wise discovers her omission, and with prompti- 
tude repairs it; for herself, for Miss Tapkins, 
for Miss Frederica Tapkins, for Miss Antonina 
Tapkins, for Miss Malvina Tapkins, and for Miss 
Kuphemia Tapkins. Likewise, for Mrs. Henry 
George Alfred Swoshle, née Tapkins. Likewise, 
for Mrs. Tapkins at Home, Wednesdays, Music, 
Portland Place. 

Tradesmen’s books hunger, and tradesmen’s 
mouths water, for the gold dust of the Golden 
Dustman. As Mrs. Boffin and Miss Wilfer drive 
out, or as Mr. Boffin walks out at his jog-trot 
pace, the fishmonger pulls off his hat with an 
air of reverence founded on conviction. His 
men cleanse their fingers on their woolen aprons 
before presuming to touch their foreheads to Mr. 
Boffin or Lady. The gaping salmon and the 
golden mullet lying on the slab seem to turn up 
their eyes sidewise, as they would turn up their 
hands, if they had any, in worshiping admira- 
tion. The butcher, though a portly and a pros- 
perous man, doesn’t know what to do with him- 
self, so anxious is he to express humility when 
discovered by the passing Boffins taking the air 
in a mutton grove. Presents are made to the 
Boffin servants, and bland strangers with busi- 
ness-cards meeting said servants in the street, 
offer hypothetical corruption. As, “ Supposing 
I was to be favored with an order from Mr. Bof- 
fin, my dear friend, it would be worth my while’ 
——to do a certain thing that I hope might not 
prove wholly disagreeable to your feelings. 

But no one knows so well as the Secretary, 
who opens and reads the letters, what a set is 
made at the man marked by a stroke of notori- 
ety. Oh the varieties of dust for ocular use of- 
fered in exchange for the gold dust of the Golden 
Dustman! Fifty-seven churches to be erected 
with half-crowns, forty-two parsonage houses to 
be repaired with shillings, seven-and-twenty or- 
gans to be built with half-pence, twelve hundred 
children to be brought up on postage stamps. 
Not that a half-crown, shilling, ha'i-penny, or 
postage stamp would be particularly acceptable 
from Mr. Boftin, but that it is so obvious he is 
the man to make up the deficiency. And then 
the charities, my Christian brother! And most- 
ly in difficulties, yet mostly lavish, too, in the 
expensive articles of print and paper. Large fat 
private double letter, sealed with ducal coronet. 
‘* Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire. My Dear Sir,— 
Having consented to preside at the forthcoming 
Annual Dinner of the Family Party Fund, and 
feeling deeply impressed with the immense use- 
fulness of that noble Institution and the great 
importance of its being supported by a List of 
Stewards that shall prove to the public the in- 
terest taken in it by popular and distinguished 
men, I have undertaken to ask you to become 
a Steward on that occasion. Soliciting your 
favorable reply before the 14th instant, I am, 
My Dear Sir, Your faithful Servant, Linsrrp. 
P.S. The Steward’s fee is limitcd to three Guin- 


102 


eas.” Friendly this, on the part of the Duke of 
Linseed (and thoughtful in the postscript), only 
lithographed by the hundred and presenting but 
a pale individuality of address to Nicodemus 
Boffin, Esquire, in quite another hand. It takes 
two noble Earls and a Viscount, combined, to 
inform Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire, in an equally 
flattering manner, that an estimable lady in the 
West of England has offered to present a purse 
containing twenty pounds, to the Society for 
Granting Annuities to Unassuming Members of 
the Middle Classes, if twenty individuals will 
previously present purses of one hundred pounds 
each. And those benevolent noblemen very kind- 
ly point out that if Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire, 
should wish to present two or more purses, it 
will not be inconsistent with the design of the 
estimable lady in the West of England, provided 
each purse be coupled with the name of some 
member of his honored and respected family. 
These are the corporate beggars. But there 
are, besides, the individual beggars; and how 
does the heart of the Secretary fail him when he 
has to cope with then! And they must be coped 
with to some extent, because they all inclose 
documents (they call their scraps documents; 
but they are, as to papers deserving the name, 
what minced veal is to a calf), the non-return 
of which would be their ruin. That is to say, 
they are utterly ruined now, but they would be 
more utterly ruined then. Among these corre- 
spondents are several daughters of general of- 
ficers, long accustomed to every luxury of life 
(except spelling), who little thought, when their 
gallant fathers waged war in the Peninsula, that 
they would ever have to appeal to those whom 
Providence, in its inscrutable wisdom, has bless- 
ed with untold gold, and from among whom they 
select the name of Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire, 
for a maiden effort in this wise, understanding 
that he has such a heart as never was. The 
Secretary learns, too, that confidence between 
man and wife would seem to obtain but rarely 
when virtue is in distress, so numerous are the 
wives who take up their pens to ask Mr. Boffin 
for money without the knowledge of their de- 
voted husbands, who would never permit it; 
while, on the other hand, so numerous are the 
husbands who take up their pens to ask Mr. 
- Boffin for money without the knowledge of their 
devoted wives, who would instantly go out of 
their senses if they had the least suspicion of the 
circumstance. ‘There are the inspired beggars, 
too. These were sitting, only yesterday evening, 
musing over a fragment of candle which must 
soon go out and leave them in the dark for the 
rest of their nights, when surely some Angel 
whispered the name of Nicodemus Boffin, Es- 
quire, to their souls, imparting rays of hope, nay 
confidence, to which they had long been stran- 
gers! Akin td these are the suggestively-be- 
friended beggars, They were partaking of a 
cold potato and water by the flickering and 
gloomy light of a lucifer-match, in their lodg- 
ings (rent considerably in arrear, and heartless 
landlady threatening expulsion ‘‘like a dog” into 
the streets), when a gifted friend happening to 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


look in, said, ‘‘ Write immediately to Nicodemus 
Boffin, Esquire,” and would take no denial. 
There are the- nobly independent beggars too. 
‘These, in the days of their abundance, ever re- 
garded gold as dross, and have not yet got over 
that only impediment in the way of their amass- 
ing wealth, but they want no dross from Nico- 
demus Boffin, Esquire; No, Mr. Boffin; the 
world may term it pride, paltry pride if you 
will, but they wouldn’t take it if you offered it ; 
a loan, Sir—for fourteen weeks to the day, in- 
terest calculated at the rate of five per cent. per 
annum, to be bestowed upon any charitable in- 
stitution you may name—is all they want of 
you, and if you have the meanness to refuse it, 
count on being despised by these. great spirits. 


There are the beggars of punctual business-hab-. 


its too. These will make an end of themselves 
at a quarter to one P.M. on Tuesday, if no Post. 
office order is in the interim received from Nic- 
odemus Boffin, Esquire; arriving after a quarter 
to one p.m. on ‘Tuesday, it need not be sent, as 


they will then (having made an exact memoran= 


dum of the heartless cireumstanees) be ‘‘ cold in 
death.”” ‘There are the beggars on horseback 
too, in another sense from the sense of the proy- 
erb, These are mounted and ready to start on 
the highway to affluence. The goal is before 
them, the road is in the best condition, their 
spurs are on, the steed is willing, but, at the 
last moment, for want of some special thing—a 
clock, a violin, an astronomical telescope, an 
electrifying machine—they must dismount for- 
ever, unless they receive its equivalent in money 
from Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire. Less given to 
detail are the beggars who make sporting ven- 
tures. ‘These, usually to be addressed in reply 
under initials at a country post-office, inquire in 
feminine hands, Dare one who can not disclose 
herself to Nicodemus Boffin, Esquire, but whose 
name might startle him were it revealed, solicit 
the immediate advance of two hundred pounds 
from unexpected riches exercising their no- 
blest privilege in the trust of a common human- 
ity ? 

Tn such a Dismal Swamp does the new house 
stand, and through it does the Secretary daily 
struggle breast-high. Not to mention all. the 
people alive who have made inventions that won’t 
act, and all the jobbers who job in all the job- 
beries jobbed; though these may be regarded as 
the Alligators of the Dismal Swamp, and are al- 
ways lying by to drag the Golden Dustman un- 
der 


But the old house. There are no designs 
against the Golden Dustman there? There are 
no fish of the shark tribe in the Bower waters ? 
Perhaps not. Still, Wegg is established there, 
and would seem, judged by his secret proceed- 
ings, to cherish a notion of making a discovery. 
For, when a man with a wooden leg lies prone 
on his stomach to peep under bedsteads; and 
hops up ladders, like some extinct bird, to sur- 
vey the tops of presses and cupboards; and pro- 
vides himself an iron rod which he is always 


poking and prodding into dust-mounds; the . 


probability is that he expects to find something. 


pees 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


BOOK I1—BIRDS 


CHAPTER I. 
OF AN EDUCATIONAL CHARACTER. 


Tue school at which young Charley Hexam 
had first learned from a book—the streets be- 
ing, for pupils of his degree, the great Prepara- 
tory Establishment in which very much that is 

never unlearned is learned without and before 
hook—was a miserable loft in an unsavory yard. 
Its atmosphere was oppressive and disagreeable ; 
it was crowded, noisy, and confusing; half the 
pupils dropped asleep, or fell into a state of 
waking stupefaction ; the other half kept them 
in either condition by maintaining a monoto- 
nous droning noise, as if they were performing 
Out of time and tune, on a ruder sort of bag- 
pipe. The teachers, animated solely by good 
‘intentions, had no idea of execution, and a lam- 
entable jumble was the upshot of their kind en- 
deavors. 

It was a school for all ages, and for both sex- 
es. ‘The latter were kept apart, and the former 
were partitioned off into square assortments. 
Bat all the place was pervaded by a grimly In- 
dicrous pretense that every pupil was childish 
and innocent. This pretense, much favored by 
the lady-visitors, led to the ghastliest absurdi- 
ties. Young women old in the vices of the 
commonest and worst life, were expected to pro- 
fess themselves enthralled by the good child’s 
book, the Adventures of Little Margery, who 
resided in the village cottage by the mill; se- 
verely reproved and morally squashed the mil- 
ler, when she was five and he was fifty; divided 
her porridge with singing birds; denied herself 

“a new nankeen bonnet, on the ground that the 
turnips did not wear nankeen bonnets, neither 
did the sheep who ate them; who plaited straw 
and delivered the dreariest orations to all com- 
ers, at all sorts of unseasonable times. So, un- 
wieldy young dredgers and hulking mud-larks 
were referred to the experiences of Thomas 
Twopence, who, having resolved not to rob (un- 
der circumstances of uncommon atrocity) his 
particular friend and benefactor, of eighteen- 
pence, presently came into supernatural posses- 
‘sion of three and sixpence, and lived a shining 
light ever afterward. (Note, that the benefac- 
tor came to no good.) Several swaggering sin- 
ners had written their own biographies in the 
same strain; it always appearing from the les- 
sons of those very boastful persons, that you 
were to do good, not because it was good, but 
because you were to. make a good thing of it. 
Contrariwise, the adult pupils were taught to 
Yead (if they could Jearn) out of the New Testa- 
ment; and by dimt of stumbling over the sylla- 
bles and keeping their bewildered eyes on the 
particular syllables coming round to their turn, 
were as absolutely ignorant of the sublime his- 
tory, as if they had never seen or heard of it. 
An exceedingly and confoundingly perplexing 
jumble of a school, in fact, where black spirits 
and gray, red spirits and white, jumbled jum- 


103 


OF A FEATHER. 


bled jumbled jumbled, jumbled every night. 
And particularly every Sunday night. For then, 
an inclined plane of unfortunate infants would 
be handed over to the prosiest and worst of all 
the teachers with good intentions, whom nobody 
older would endure. Who, taking his stand on 
the floor before them as chief exccutioner, would 
be attended by a conventional volunteer boy as 
executioncr’s assistant. When and where it first 
became the conventional system that a weary or 
inattentive infant in a class must have its face 
smoothed downward with a hot hand, or when 
and where the conventional volunteer boy first 
beheld such system in operation, and became in- 
flamed with a sacred zeal to administer it, mate 
ters not. It was the function of the chief exe- 
cutioner to hold forth, and it was the function 
of the acolyte to dart at sleeping infants, yawn- 
ing infants, restless infants, whimpering infants, 
and smooth their wretched faces; sometimes 
with one hand, as if he were anointing them for 
a whisker ; sometimes with both hands, applied 
after the fashion of blinkers. And so the jum- 
ble would be in action in this department for a 
mortal hour; the exponent drawling on to My 
Dearerr Childerrenerr, let us say, for example, 
about the beautiful coming to the Sepulchre ; 
and repeating the word Sepulchre (commonly 
used among infants) five hundred times, and 
never once hinting what it meant; the conven- 
tional boy smoothing. away right and left, as an 
infallible commentary; the whole hot-bed of 
flushed and exhausted infants exchanging mea- 
sles, rashes, whooping-cough, fever, and stomach 
disorders, as if they were assembled in High 
Market for the purpose. 

Even in this temple of good intentions, an ex- 
ceptionally sharp boy exceptionally determined 
to learn, could learn something, and, having 
learned it, could impart it much better than the 
teachers; as being more knowing than they, and 
not at the disadvantage in which they stood to- 
ward the shrewder pupils. In this way it. had) 
come about that Charley Hexam had risen in 
the jumble, taught in the jumble, and been re- 
ceived from the jumble into a better school. 

‘*So.you want to go and see your sister, Hex- 
am ?” 

‘* If you please, Mr. Headstone.” 

‘* Thave half a mind to go with you. 
does your sister live ?” 

‘Why, she is not settled yet, Mr. Headstone. 
I’d rather you didn’t see her till she is settled, 
if it was all the same to you.” - 

‘* Look here, Hexam.”: Mr. Bradley Head- 
stone, highly certificated stipendiary schoolmas- 
ter, drew his right forefinger through one of the 
button-holes of the boy’s coat, and looked at it 
attentively. ‘‘I hope your sister may be good 
comiany for you ?” 

‘Why do you doubt it, Mr. Headstone?” 

**T did not say I donbted it.” 

‘* No, Sir; you didn’t say so.” 
Bradvey Headstone looked at his finger again, 


Where 


104 


closer, bit the side of it and looked at it again. 


‘You see, Ilexam, you will be one of us. In 
good time you are sure to pass a creditable ex- 
Then the 


amination and become one of us. 
question is-—” 


The boy waited so long for the question, while 
the schoolmaster looked at a new side of his fin- 
ger, and bit it, and looked at it again, that at 


length the boy repeated : 
‘The question is, Sir—?” 


‘‘Whether you had not better leave well 


alone.”’ 


“Ts it well to leave my sister alone, Mr. 


Headstone ?” 


‘*T do not say so, because I do not know. I 
I want 
You know how well you are 


put it to you. ITask you to think of it. 
you to consider. 
doing here.” 


“After all, she got me here,” said the boy, 


with a struggle. 


‘*Perceiving the necessity of it,” acquiesced 
the schoolmaster, ‘‘and making up her mind 


Yes.” 


fully to the separation. 


The boy, with a return of that former reluct- 
ance or struggle or whatever it was, seemed to 
At length he said, raising 


debate with himself. 
nis eyes to the master’s face: 
‘‘{ wish you’d come with me and see her, 


Mr. Headstone, though she is-not settled. I 
wish you’d come with me, and take her in the 


rough, and judge her for yourself.” 


“You are sure you would not like,” asked 


the schoolmaster, ‘‘to prepare her?” 

**My sister Lizzie,” said the boy, proudly, 
‘‘wants no preparing, Mr. Headstone. 
she is, she is, and shows herself to be. 
no pretending about my sister.” 

His confidence in her sat more easily upon 
him than the indecision with which he had 
twice contended. It was his better nature to 
be true to her, if it were his worse nature to be 
wholly selfish. And as yet the better nature 
had the stronger hold. 

‘‘Well, I can spare the evening,” said the 
schoolmaster. ‘‘I am ready to walk with you.” 

‘“'Phank you, Mr. Headstone. And I am 
ready to go.” 

Bradley Headstone, in his decent black coat 
and waistcoat, and decent white shirt, and de- 

scent formal black tie, and decent pantaloons of 
pepper and salt, with his decent silver watch in 
his pocket and its decent hair-guard round his 
neck, looked a thoroughly decent young man 
of six-and-twenty.. He was never seen in any 
other dress, and yet there was a certain stiffness 
in his manner of wearing this, as if there were a 
want of adaptation between him and it, recall- 
ing some mechanics in their holiday clothes. 
He had acquired mechanically a great store of 
teacher’s knowledge. He could do mental arith- 
metic mechanically, sing at sight mechanical- 
ly, blow various wind instruments mechanical- 
ly, even play the great church organ mechanic- 
ally. From his early childhood up, his mind 
had been a place of mechanical stowage. 
arrangement of his wholesale warehouse, so that 
it might be always ready to meet the demands 
of retail dealers—history here, geography there, 
astronomy to the right, political economy to the 
left—natural history, the physical sciences, fig- 
ures, music, the lower mathematics, and what 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
took it out of the button-hole and looked at it 


What 


There's | stone and young Charley Hexam that autumn © 


The: 


not, all in their several places—this care had 
imparted to his countenance a look of care; | 
while the habit of questioning and heing ques- | 
tioned had given him a suspicious manner, or a 
manner that would be better described as one — 
of lying in wait, ‘There was a kind of settled — 
trouble in the face. It was the face belonging | 
to a naturally slow or inattentive intellect that > 
had toiled hard to get what it had won, and | 
that had to hold it now that it was gotten. He 
always seemed to be uneasy lest any thing should © 
be missing from his mental warehouse, and tak. 
ing stock to assure himself. 8 

Suppression of so much to make room for so _ 
much had given him a constrained manner, © 
over and above. Yet there was enough of what 7” 
was animal, and of what was fiery (though © 
smouldering), still visible in him, to suggest that | 
if young Bradley Headstone, when a pauper lad, © 
had chanced to be told off for the sea, he would © 
not have been the last man in a ship's crew. © 
Regarding that origin of his, he was proud,” 
moody, and sullen, desiring it to be forgotten, ~ 
And few people knew of it. , 

In'some visits to the Jumble his attention had 
been attracted to this bby Hexam. An undeni-_ 
able boy for a pupil-teacher ; an undeniable boy © 
to do credit to the master who should bring him 7 
on. Combined with this consideration, there ~ 
may have been some thought of the pauper lad 7 
now never to be mentioned. Be that how it 7 
might, he had with pains gradually worked the ~ 
boy into his own school, and procured him some — 
offices to discharge there, which were repaid ~ 
with food and lodging. Such were the circum- 7 
stances that had brought together Bradley Head- — 


evening.. Autumn, because full half a year had 
come and gone since the bird of prey lay dead — 
upon the river-shore. 

The schools—for they were twofold, as the 7 
sexes—were down in that district of the flat. 
country tending to the Thames, where Kent 
and Surrey meet, and where the railways still 7 
bestride the market-gardens that will soon die 
under them. The schools were newly built, and | 
there were so many like them all over the coun-_ 
try that one might have thought the whole were © 
but one restless edifice with the locomotive gift 7 
of Aladdin’s palace. They were in a neighbor-_ 
hood which looked like a toy neighborhood taken 
in blocks out of a box by a child of particularly” 
incoherent mind, and set up any how; here, one _ 
side of a new street; there, a large solitary pubs 
lic house facing nowhere; here, another unfin- 
ished street already in ruins; there, a church; 
here, an immense new warehouse; there, a di- 
lapidated old country villa; then, a medley of © 
black ditch, sparkling cucumber - frame, rank 
field, richly cultivated kitchen-garden, brick 
viaduct, arch-spanned canal, and disorder of 
frowziness and fog. As if the child had given 
the table a kick, and gone to sleep. q 

But, even among school- buildings, school- 
teachers, and school-pupils, all according to pats _ 
tern and all engendered in the light of the latest — 
Gospel according to Monotony, the older pattern — 
into which so many fortunes have been shaped — 
for good and evil, comes out. It came out in 
Miss Peecher the schoolmistress, watering her — 
flowers, as Mr. Bradley Headstone walked forth. 
It came out in Miss Peecher the schoolmistres 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


watering the flowers in the little dusty bit of 


garden attached to her small official residence, | 


_ with little windows like the eyes in needies, and 

_ little doors like the covers of school books. 

Small, shining, neat, methodical, and buxom 
was Miss Peecher: cherry-cheeked and tuneful 

of voice. <A little pin-cushion, a little housewife, 

‘a little book, a little work-box, a little set of ta- 
bles and weights and measures, and a little wo- 
man, all in one. She could write a little essay 
on any subject, exactly a slate long, beginning 

at the left-hand top of one side and ending at 
the right-hand bottom of the other, and the es- 

“say should be strictly according to rule. : 
Bradley Headstone had addressed a written pro- 
posal of marriage to-her, she would probably 
have replied in a complete little essay on the 
themg exactly a slate long, but would certainly 

have replied Yes. For she loved _him.. The de- 
cent hair-guard that: went round his neck and 
took care of his decent silver watch was an ob- 
ject of envy to her. So would Miss Peecher 
have gone round his neck and taken care of 

‘him. Of him, insensible. Because he did not 
love Miss Peecher. 

Miss Peecher’s favorite pupil, who assisted 

- her in her little household, was in attendance 
with a can of water to replenish her little wa- 
tering-pot, and sufficiently divined the state of 

Miss Peecher’s affections to feel it necessary 
that she herself should love young Charley Hex- 
am. So there was a double palpitation among 
the double stocks and double wall-flowers when 
the master and the boy looked over the little 
gate. | 

‘‘A fine evening, Miss Peecher,” said the 
Master. 

___‘*A very fine evening, Mr. Headstone,” said 

Miss Peecher. ‘‘ Are you taking a walk ?” 

‘* Hexam and I are going to take a long walk.” 

‘“*Charming weather,” remarked Miss Peech- 

-er, ‘‘ for a long walk.” . 

** Ours is rather on business than mere pleas- 
ure,” said the Master. 

Miss Peecher inverting her watering-pot, and 
very carefully shaking out the few last drops over 
a flower, as if there were some special virtue in 
them which would make it a Jack’s bean-stalk 
before morning, called for replenishment to her 
pupil, who had been speaking to the boy. 

**Good-night, Miss Peecher,” said the Master. 

**Good-night, Mr, Headstone,” said the Mis- 
tress. 

The pupil had been, in her state of pupilage, 
so imbued with the class-custom of stretching 
out an arm, as if to hail a cab or omnibus, when- 

ever she found she had an observation on hand 

to offer to Miss Peecher, that she often did it in 
their domestic relations; and she did it now. 

_ Well, Mary Anne?” said Miss Peecher. 

“If you please, ma’am, Hexam said they were 
going to see his sister.” 

_» “*But that can’t be, I.think,” returned Miss 
Peecher : ‘‘ because Mr. Headstone can have no 
business with her.” 

_ Mary Anne again hailed. 

_ “Well, Mary Anne?” } . 
_ “Tf you please, ma’am, perhaps it’s Hexam’s 
business ?” Mins 4 
___‘*That may be,” said Miss Peecher. ‘I 
didn’t think of that. Not that it matters at 
all.” mm 
7 


oer. 


105 


Mary Anne again hailed. 

** Well, Mary Anne ?” 

‘“They say she’s very handsome.” 

‘*Oh, Mary Anne, Mary Anne!” returned 
Miss Peecher, slightly coloring and shaking her 
head, a little out of humor; ‘how often have I 
told you not to use that vague expression, not 
to speak in that general way? When you say 
they say, what do you mean? Part of speech 
They ?” 

Mary Anne hooked her right arm behind her 
in her left hand, as being under examination, 
and replied: 

‘¢ Personal pronoun.” 

‘* Person, ‘They ?” 

‘<'Third person.” 

‘¢ Number, They ?” 

* Plural number.” 

“Then how many do you mean, Mary Anne? 


Two? Or more?” 


‘“‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Mary 
Anne, disconcerted now she came to think of 
it; ‘*but I don’t know that IL mean more than 
her brother himself.” As she said it, she un- 
hooked her arm. 

‘*I felt convinced of it,” returned Miss Peech- 
er, smiling again. ‘Now pray, Mary Anne, be 
careful another time. He says-is very different 
from they say, remember. Difference between 
he says and they say? Give it me.” 

Mary Anne immediately hooked her right arm 
behind her in her left hand—an attitude abso- 
lutely necessary to the situation—and replied: 
**Qne is indicative mood, present tense, third 
person singular, verb active to say. Other is 
indicative mood, present. tense, third person 
plural, verb active to say.” 

**’Why verb active, Mary Anne?” 

** Because it takes a pronoun after it in the 
objective case, Miss Peecher.” 

‘‘ Very good indeed,” remarked Miss Peecher, 
with encouragement. ‘‘In fact, could not be | 
better. Don’t forget to apply it, another time, ~ 
Mary Anne.” This said, Miss Peecher finished 
the watering of her flowers, and went into her 
little official residence, and took a refresher of 
the principal rivers and mountains of the world, 
their breadths, depths, and heights, before set- 
tling the measurements of the body of a dress. 
for her own personal occupation. 

Bradley Headstone and Charley Hexam duly 
got to the Surrey side of Westminster Bridge, 
and crossed the bridge, and made along the 
Middlesex shore toward Millbank. In this re- 
gion are a certain little street called Church 
Street, and a certain little blind square, called 
Smith Square, in the centre of which last re- 
treat is a very hideous church with four towers 
at the four corners, generally resembling some 
petrified monster, frightful and gigantic, on its 
back, with its legs in the air. ‘They found a tree 
near by in a corner, and a blacksmith’s forge,. 
and a timber-yard, and a dealer’s in old iron.. 
What a rusty portion of a boiler and a great 
iron wheel or so meant by lying half buried in 
the dealer’s fore-court, nobody seemed to know 
or to want to know. Like the Miller of ques- 
tionable jollity in the song, They cared. for No=. 
body, no not they, and Nobody cared for them. 

After making the round of this place, and note 
ing that there was a deadly kind of repose on it, 
more as though it had taken laudanum than 


106 


point where the street and the square joined, 
and where there were some little quiet houses in 
arow. ‘To these Charley Hexam finally led the 
Way, and at one of these stopped. 

‘‘This must be where my sister lives, Sir. 
This is where she came for a temporary lodging 
soon after father’s death.” 

‘* How often have you seen her since ?” 

‘*Why, only twice, Sir,” returned the boy, 
with his former reluctance ; ‘* but that’s as much 
her doing as mine.” 

‘* How does she support herself?” 

‘* She was always a fair needle-woman, and 
she keeps the stock-room of a seaman’s out- 
fitter.” 


‘Does she ever work at her own lodging | 


here ?” 

‘* Sometimes ; but her regular hours and reg- 
ular occupation are at their place of business, I 
believe, Sir. This is the number.” 

The boy knocked at a door, and the door 
promptly opened with a spring and a chek. <A 
parlor door within a small entry stood open, and 
disclosed a child—a dwarf—a girl—a something 
—sitting on a little low old-fashioned arm-chair, 
which had a kind of little working-bench be- 
fore it. 

‘I can’t get up,” said the child, ‘* because my 
back’s bad, and my legs are queer. But I’m the 
person of the house.” 

**Who else is at home ?”’ asked Charley Hex- 
am, staring. 

‘* Nobody’s at home at present,” returned the 
child, with a glib assertion of her dignity, ‘ex- 
cept the person of the house. What did you 
Want, young man?” 

‘| wanted to see my sister.” 

** Many young men have sisters,” returned the 
child, ‘Give me your name, young man.” 

The queer little figure, and the queer but not 


ugly little face, with its bright gray eyes, were | 


so sharp, that the sharpness of the manner secem- 
ed unavoidable. As if, being turned out of that 
mould. ic must be sharp. 

** Hexam is my name.” 

‘* Ah, indeed ?” said the person of the house. 
“J thought it might be. Your sister will be in 
in about a quarter of an hour. I am_ very fond 
of your sister. Shc’s my particular friend. 
Take a seat. And this genth:man’s name ?” 

**Mr. Headstone, my schoolmaster.” 

‘Take aseat. And would vou please to shut 
the street door first? I can’t very well do it 
myself, because my back’s so bad, and my legs 
are so queer,” 

They complied in silence, and the little fignre 
went on with its work of gumming or gluing to- 
gether with a camel’s-hair brush certain picces 
of card-board and thin wood, previously ent into 
various shapes, The scissors and knives upon 
the bench showed that the child herself had cut 
them; and the bright scraps of velvet and silk 
and ribbon also strewn upon the bench showed 
that when duly stuffed (and stuffing too was 
there), she was to cover them smartly. The 
dexterity of her nimble fingers was remarkable, 
and, as she brought two thin edges accurately 
together by giving them a little bite, she would 


gray eyes with a look that out-sharpened all her 
other sharpness. : 


‘ders and shook her head. 


‘all night. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


fallen into a natural rest, they stopped at the | ‘You can’t tell me the name of my trade, V'll 


be bound,’’she said, after taking several of these 
observations. 
‘¢You make pin-cushions,”’ said Charley, 
‘What else do I make?” 
‘* Pen-wipers,” said Bradley Headstone. 
‘Hal. ha! 
a schoolmaster, but you can’t tell me.” 
‘*You do something,” he returned, pointing 


to a corner of the little bench, ‘‘ with straw; but 


I don’t know what.” 

** Well done you!” cried the person of the 
house. ‘I only make pin-cushions and pen- 
wipers to use up my waste, But my straw really 


do | make with my straw ?” 

*¢ Dinner-mats ?” 

** A schoolmaster, and says dinner-mats! Ill 
give you a clew to my trade in a game of for- 
feits. . I love my love with a B because she’s 
Beautiful; I hate my love with a B because she 
is Brazen; I took her to the sign of- the Blue 
Boar, and I treated her with Bonnets; her 


/name’s Bouncer, and she lives in Bedlam.— 


Now, what do I make with my straw ?” 
’ “* Ladies’ bonnets ?” 

‘Fine ladies’,” said the person of the house, 
nodding assent. ‘Dolls’. I’m a Doll’s Dress- 
maker.” 

“*T hope it’s a good business ?” 

The person of the house shrugged her shoul- 
‘No. Poorly paid. 
And I’m often so pressed for time! I had a 
doll married, last week, and was obliged to work 
And it’s not good for me, on account 
of my back being so bad and my legs so queer.” 

They looked at the little creature with a won- 
der that did not diminish, and the schoolmaster 
said: ‘*I am sorry your fine ladies are so incon- 
siderate.”’ 

‘‘It’s the way with them,” said the person 
of the house, shrugging her shonlders again. 
‘‘And they take no care of their clothes, and 
they never keep to the same fashions a month. 
I work for a doll with three daughters. Bless 
you, she’s enough to ruin her husband!) 

The person of the house gave a weird little 


laugh here, and gave them another look out of 


‘the corners of her eyes. 


| Doll I work for lost a canary-bird.” 


| Hendstone. 


She had an elfin chin 
that was capable of great expression ; and when- 
ever she gave this look she hitched this chin up. 
As if her eyes and her chin worked together on 
the same wires. 
‘‘ Are you always as busy as you are now ?” 
‘*Busier. I’m slack just now. I finished a 


What else do I make? You’re | 


does belong to my business. Try again, What - 


large mourning order the day before yesterday. #) 


The per- 


then nodded her head several times, as who 
should moralize, ‘*Oh this world, this world!” 
‘Are you alone all day?” asked Bradley 
‘Don’t any of the neighboring 
children— ?” 
“Ah, lud!” eried the person of the house, 
with a little scream, as if the word had pricked 


her. ‘*Don’t talk of children, T-ean’t bear 
children. J know their tricks and their-man- | 
ners.” She said this with an angry little shake — 


of her right fist close before her eyes. 
glance at the visitors out of the corners of her | 


Perhaps it scarcely required the teacher-habit 


to perceive that the doll’s dress-maker was ine 


clined to be bitter on the difference between her 


son of the house gave another little laugh, and — | 


\ 


1a 


| 
“| 
| 
| 

| 

I 


{ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


self and other children. But both master and 
pupil understood it so. 

‘* Always running about and screeching, al- 
ways playing and fighting, always skip-skip-skip- 
ping on the pavement and chalking it for their 
games! Oh! J know their tricks and their man- 
ners!”? Shaking the little fist as before. ‘‘And 
that’s not all. - Ever so often calling names in 
through @ person’s keyhole, and imitating a per- 
‘son’s back and legs, Oh! JZ know their tricks 
and their manners. And IYI tell you what I'd 
do to punish *em. ‘There’s doors under the 
church in the Square—black doors, leading into 
black vaults. Well! I'd open one of those doors, 
and I’d cram ’em all in, and then I’d lock the 
door and through the keyhole I'd blow in pep- 
per.” 

“‘What would be the good of blowing i in pep- 
per?” asked Charley Hexam. 

**'To set ’em sneezing,” said the person of the 
house, “‘and make their eyes water. And when 
they were all sneezing and inflamed, I’d mock 
em through the keyhole. Just as they, with 
their tricks and their manners, mock a person 

through a person’s keyhole!” 

An uncommonly emphatic shake of her little 
fist close before her eyes seemed io ease the mind 
of the person of the house; for she added with 
recovered composure, ‘‘No, no, no. No chil- 
dren for me. Give me grown-ups.” 

It was difficult to guess the age of this strange 
creature, for her poor figure furnished no clew 
to it, and her face was at once so young and so 
/ old. Twelve, or at the most thirteen, might be 
_ near the mark. 

**T always did like grown-ups,” she went on, 
*‘and always kept company with them. So 
sensible. Sit so quiet. Don’t go prancing and 
capering about! And I mean always to keep 
among none but grown-ups till I marry. ‘I sup- 
pose I must make up my mind to marry one of 
‘these days.” 

She listened to a step outside that caught her 
ear, and there was a soft knock at the door. 
_ Pulling at a handle within her reach, she said, 
with a pleased laugh: ‘‘ Now here, for instance, 
is & grown-up that’s my particular friend!” and 
Lizzie Hexam in a black dress entered the 


_ room. 


‘*Charley! You!” 

‘Taking him to her arms in the old way—of 
which he seemed a little ashamed—she saw no 
one else. 

»**' There, there, there, Liz, all right my dear. 
See! Here’s Mr. Headstone come with me.” 
Her eyes met those of the schoolmaster, who 
had evidently expected to see a very different 
- sort of person, and a murmured word or two of 
salutation passed between them. She was a 
little flurried by the unexpected visit, and the 
schoolmaster was not at his ease. But he never 
was, quite. 

“T told Mr. Hdatucsre you were not settled, 
Liz, but he was so kind as to take an interest in 
coming, and so I brought him. How well you 
look!” 

Bradley seemed to think so. 

“Ah! Don’t she, don’t she ?” cried the per- 
son of the house, resuming her occupation, 
_ though the twilight was falling fast. ‘‘I believe 
you she does! But go on with your chat, one 
and all: 


WAS 
Baars! |.) 
Y vietes 
, Way 


107 


‘You one two three, 
My com-pa-nie, 
And don’ t mind me.’ 
—pointing this impromptu rhyme with three 
points of her thin forefinger. 

‘‘T didn’t expect a visit from you, Charley,” 
said his sister. ‘‘I supposed that if you wanted 
to see me you would have sent to me, appoint- 
ing me to come somewhere near the school, as 
I did last time. I saw my brother near ‘the 
school, Sir,” to Bradley Headstone, ‘‘ because it’s 
easier for me to go there than for him to come 
here. I work about midway between the two 
places.” 

“You don’t see much of one another,” said 
Bradley, not improving in respect of ease. 

‘*No.” With a rather sad shake of her 
head. “Charley always does well, Mr. Head- 
stone ?” 

‘* He could not do better. I regard his course 
as quite plain before him.” 

‘‘] hoped so. I am so thankful. So well 
done of you, Charley dear! It is better for me 
not to come (except when he wants me) between 
him and his prospects. You think so, Mr. Head- 
stone ?”” 

Conscious that his pupil-teacher was looking 
for his answer, and that he himself had suggested 
the boy’s keeping aloof from this sister, now seen 
for the first time face to face, Bradley Head- 
stone stammered : 

‘Your brother is very much occupied, you 
know. He has to work hard. One can not but 
say that the less his attention is diverted from 
his work the better for his future. When he 
shall have established himself, why then—it will 
be another thing then.” 

Lizzie shook her head again, and returned 
With a quiet smile: ‘‘I always advised him as 
you advise him. Did I not, Charley ?” 

‘* Well, never mind that now,” said the boy. 
‘* How are you getting on?” 

‘Very well, Charley. I want for nothing.” 

“You have your own room here ?” 

‘*Oh yes. Up Stairs. And it’s quiet, and 
pleasant, and airy.” 

i And she always has the use of this room for 
visitors,”’ said the person of the house, screwing 
up one of her little bony fists, like an opera-glass, 
and looking through it, with her eyes and her 
chin in that quaint accordance. ‘‘ Always this 
room for visitors; haven’t you, Lizzie dear ?” 

It happened that Bradley Headstone noticed 
a very slight action of Lizzie Hexam’s hand, as 
though it checked the doll’s dress-maker. And 
it happened that the latter noticed him in the 
same instant; for she made a double eye-glass 
of her two hands, looked at him through it, and 
cried, with a waggish shake of her head: ‘‘Aha! 
Canght you spying, did 1?” 

It might have fallen out so, any way; but 
Bradley Headstone also noticed that immediate- 
ly after this, Lizzie, who had not taken off her 
bonnet, rather hurriedly. proposed that as the 
room was getting dark they should go out into 
the air. They went out; the visitors saying 
good-night to the doll’s dress-maker, whom they 
left leaning back in her chair with her arms 
crossed, singing to herself in a sweet thoughtful 
little voice. 

‘¢T’ll saunter on by the river,” said Bradley. 
‘¢You will be glad to talk together.” 


108 , 

As his uneasy figure went on before them 
among the evening shadows the boy said to his 
sister, petulantly : 

‘‘When are you going to settle yourself in 
some Christian sort of place, Liz? I thought 
you were going to do it before now.” 

‘I am very well where I am, Charley.” 

‘* Very well where you are! I am ashamed 
to have brought Mr. Headstone with me. How 
came you to get into such company as that ms 
witch’s ?” : 

‘By chance at first, as it seemed, Charley. 
But I think it must have been by something more 
than chance, for that child— You remember 
the bills upon the walls at home?” 

“*Confound the bills upon the walls at home! 
I want to forget the bills upon the walls at home, 
and it would be better for you to do the same,” 
grumbled the boy. ‘* Well; what of them?” 

**' This child is the grandchild of the old man.” 

**'What old man ?”’ 

*“The terrible drunken old man in the list 
slippers and the night-cap.” 

The boy asked, rubbing his nose in a manner 
that half expressed vexation at hearing so much, 
and half curiosity to hear more: ‘‘ How came 

ou to make that out? What a girl you are!” 

“The child’s father is employed by the house 
that employs me; that’s how I came to know it, 
Charley. The father is like his own father, a 
weak wretched trembling creature, falling to 
pieces, never sober. But a good workman too, 
at the work he does; The mother is dead. 
This poor ailing little creature has come to be 
what she is, surrounded by drunken people from 
her cradle—if she ever had one, Charley.” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


do, and mean to do. I know whai'I owe you: 
| I said to Mr. Headstone this very evening, ‘After 
all, my sister got me here.’ Well, then. Don’t 

pull me back, and hold. me down. ‘That’s all I | 
ask, and surely that’s not, unconscionable.” 

She had kept a steadfast look upon him, and 
she answered with composure : 

‘“‘T am not here selfishly, Charley. To please 
myself, I could not be too far from that river.” 

‘Nor could you be too far from it to please 
me. Let us get quit of itequally.. Why should 
you linger about it any more than I? I giveita 
wide berth.” 

‘*T can’t get away from it, I think,” said 
Lizzie, passing her hand across her forehead. 
‘It’s no purpose of mine that I live by it still.” 

‘*There you go, Liz! Dreaming again! You 
lodge yourself of your own accord in a house 
with a drunken—tailor, I suppose—or something — 
of the sort, and a little crooked antic of a-child, 
or old person, or whatever it is, and then you~ 
talk as if you were drawn or driven there. Now 
do be more practical.” ; 

She had been practical enough with him, in 
suffering and striving for him; but she only laid 
her hand upon his shoulder—not reproachfully 
—and tapped it twice or thrice. She had been — 
used to do so, to soothe him when she carried 
him about, a child as heavy as herself. Tears 
started to his eyes. : ‘* 

‘‘Upon my word, Liz,” drawing the back of 
his hand across them, ‘‘I mean to be a good 
brother to.you, and to prove that I know what 
Towe you. All I say is, that I hope you'll con- 
trol your fancies a little, on my account. Vil 
get a school, and then you must come and live — 


‘*T don’t see what you have to do with her, for 
all that,” said the boy. 

“Don’t you, Charley ?” 

The boy looked doggedly at the river. They 
were at Millbank, and the river rolled on their 
left. His sister.gently touched him on the shoul- 
der, and pointed to it. 

‘* Any compensation—restitution—never mind 
the word, you know my meaning. Father’s 
grave.” 

But he did not respond with any tenderness. 
After a moody silence he broke out in an ill- 
used tone: = 

‘‘ It'll be a very hard thing, Liz, if, when I 
am trying my best to get up in the world, you 
pull me back.” 

¢J, Charley ?” 

“Yes, you, Liz. 


Why can’t you let by-gones 
be by-gones ? 


Why can’t you, as Mr. Headstone 


_ said to me this very evening about another mat- 


At 


raise myself, to shake you off, Liz. 
carry youup with me. 


ter, leave well alone? What we have got to do, 
is, to turn our faces full in our new direction, 
and keep straight on.” 

“And never look back? Not even to try to 
make some amends ?” 

‘* You are such a dreamer,” said the boy, with 
his former petulance. ‘‘It was all very well 
when we sat before the fire—when we looked | 
into the hollow down by the flare—but we are 


} looking into the real world now.” 


‘* Ah, we were looking into the real world 
then, Charley !” 

‘J understand what you mean by that, but 
you are not justified in it. I don’t want, as I 
I want to 
That’s what I want to 


with me, and you'll have to control your faneies_ 
then, so why not now? Now, say I haven’t — 
vexed you.” *: 

‘*You haven’t, Charley, yon haven't.” 

‘“* And say I haven’t hurt you ” 

“You haven't, Charley.” But this answer 
was less ready. 

‘* Say you are sure J didn’t mean to. Come! — 
There’s Mr. Headstone stopping, and looking 
over the wall at the tide, to hint that it’s time to _ 
go. Kiss me, and tell me that you know J didn’t 
mean to hurt you.” 

She told him so, and they embraced, and ~ 
walked on and came up with the schoolmaster. 

‘* But we go yonr sister’s way,” he remarked, _ 
when the boy told him he was ready. And ~ 
with his cumbrous and uneasy action he stiffly — 
offered her his arm. Her hand was just within © 
it when she drew it back. He looked round — 
with a start, as if he thought she had detected — 
something that repelled her in the momentary — 
touch. o 

‘*T will not go in just yet,” said Lizzie. ‘And > 
you have a distance before you, and will walk 
faster without me.”’ . 

Being by this time close to Vauxhall Bridge, © 
they resolved, in consequence, to take that way 
over the Thames, and they left her; Bradley > 
Headstone giving her his hand. at parting, and ~ 
she thanking him for his care of her brother. | 

The master and the pupil walked on rapid-— 
ly and silently. They had nearly crossed the © 
bridge when a gentleman came coolly saunter- 
ing toward them, with a cigar in his mouth, 
his coat thrown back, and his hands~ behinc 
him. Something in the careless manner of this 


WAG 


person, and in a certain lazily arrogant air with 


_ which he approached, holding pussession of twice 


‘as much pavement as another would have claim- 
ed, instantly caught the boy’s attention. As 
the gentleman passed, the boy looked at him 
narrowly, and then stood still, looking after him. 

“¢ Who is it that you stare after ?”’ asked Brad- 
lev. 

“Why!” said the boy, with a confused and 
pondering frown upon his face, ‘It as that 


- Wrayburn one !” 


Bradley. Headstone scrutinized the boy as 
elosely.as the boy had scrutinized the gentle- 
man. : 

“IT bee your pardon, Mr. Headstone, but I 
eouldn’t help wondering what in the world 
brought Aim here!” 

Though he said it as if his wonder were past 
—at the same time resuming the walk—it was 
not lost upon the master that he looked over his 
shoulder after speaking, and that the same per- 
plexed and pondering frown was heavy on his 


- face. ? 


*¢ You don’t appear to like your friend, Hex- 
am?” 

“‘T pon’T like 

‘Why not?” 

‘¢ He took hold of me by the chin in a precious 


him,” said the boy. 


impertinent way the first time I ever saw him,” 


“* 


tT 


+ 


said the boy. 


.* Again, why?” 


“ Wor nothing. Or—it’s much the same—be- 


cause something I happened to say about my sis- 


ter didn’t happen to please him.” 
‘Then he knows your sister ?” 
“¢ He didn’t at that time,” said the boy, still 


-moodily pondering. 


‘¢ Does now ?” 

The boy had so lost himself that he looked at 
Mr. Bradley Headstone as they walked on side 
by side, without attempting to reply until the 
question had been repeated; then he nodded 
and answered, ‘‘ Yes, Sir.” 

‘¢Going to see her, I dare sav.” 

“‘Tt can’t be!” said the boy, quickly. ‘* He 
doesn’t know her well enough. I should like.to 
catch him at it!” 

When they*had walked on for a time, more 
rapidly than before, the master said, clasping 
the pupil’s arm between the elbow and the shoul- 
der with his hand: 

“¢You were going to tell me something about 
that person. What did you say his name was?” 

‘“Wravburn. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn. He 


is what they call a barrister, with nothing to do. 
The first time he came to our old place was 


when my father was alive. He came on busi- 


‘ness; not that it was /’s business—he never 


had any business—he was brought by a friend 
of his.” 

‘¢ And the other times ?” 

“There was only one other time that I know 
of. When my father was killed by accident, he 
chancel to be one of the finders. He was moon- 
ing about, I suppose, taking liberties with peo- 
ple’s chins; bnt there he was, somehow. He 
brought the news home to my sister early in the 
morning, and brought Miss Abbey Potterson, a 
neighbor, to help break it to her. He was moon- 
ing about the house when I was fetched home 


in the afternoon—they didn’t know where to 


find me till my sister could be brought round 


oe 
oe eee ae ff, 


“OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


109 
sufficiently to tell them—and then he mooned 
away.” ‘ 

*« And is that all?” 
‘¢'That’s all, Sir.” ‘ 


Bradley Headstone gradually released the boy’s 
arm, as if he were thoughtful, and they walked 
on side by side as before. After a long silence 
between them, Bradley resumed the talk. 

‘¢T suppose—your sister—’ with a curious 
break both before and after the words, ‘‘has re- 
ceived hardly any teaching, Hexam ?” 

“Hardly any, Sir.” 

“Sacrificed, no doubt, to her father’s objec- 
tions. J remember them in your case. Yet— 
your sister—scarcely looks or speaks like an ig- 
norant person.” 

‘‘ Lizzie has as much thought as the best, Mr. - 
Headstone. Too much, perhaps, without teach- 
ing. I used to call the fire at home her books, 
for she was always full of fancies—sometimes 
quite wise fancies, considering—when she sat 
looking at it.” 

‘¢T don’t like that,” said Bradley Headstone. 

His pupil was a little surprised by this strik- 
ing in with so sudden and decided and emo- 
tional an objection, but took it as a proof of the 
master’s interest in himself. It emboldened him 
to sav: 

‘“‘T have never brought myself to mention it 
openly to you, Mr. Headstone, and you're my 
witness that I couldn’t even make up my mind 
to take it from you before we came out to-night ; 
but it’s a painful thing to think that if I get on 
as well as you hope, I shall be—I won't say dis- 
graced, because I don’t mean disgraced—but— 
rather put to the blush if it was known—by a 
sister who has been very good to me.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Bradley Headstone in a slurring 
way, for his mind scarcely seemed to touch that 
point, so smoothly did it glide to another, ‘‘ and 
there is this possibility to consider. Some man 
who had worked his way might come to admire 
—your sister—and might even in time bring 
himself to think of marrying—your sister—and 
it would be. a sad drawback and a heavy pen- 
alty upon him, if, overcoming in his mind oth- 
er inequalities of condition and other considera- 
tions against it, this inequality and this consid- 
eration remained in full force.” 

‘¢That’s much my own meaning, Sir.” 

‘* Ay, ay,” said Bradley Headstone, ‘‘ but you 
spoke of a mere brother. Now the case I have 
supposed would be a much stronger case; be- 
cause an admirer, a husband, would form the 
connection voluntarily, besides being obliged to 
proclaim it: which a brother is not. After all, 
you know, it must be said of you that you 
couldn’t help yourself: while it would be said of 
him, with equal reason, that he could.” 

‘‘That’s true, Sir. Sometimes since Lizzie 
was left free by father’s death, I have thought 
that such a young woman might soon acquire 
more than enough to pass muster. And some- 
times I have even thought that perhaps Miss 
Peecher—” . 

‘sor the purpose, I would advise Nor Miss 
Peecher,” Bradley Headstone struck in with a 
recurrence of his late decision of manner. 

‘“¢Would you be so kind as to think of it for _ 
me, Mr. Headstone?” , 

‘Yes, Hexam, yes. I'll think of it. Ill 
think maturely of it. 1’ll think well of it.” 


4 


% 


110 
Their walk was almost a silent one afterward 
until it ended at the school-house. ‘There one 
of neat Miss Peecher’s little windows, like the 
eyes in needles, was illuminated, and in a corner 
near it sat Mary Anne watching, while Miss 
Peecher at the table stitched at the neat little 
body she was making up by brown paper pattern 
‘for her own wearing.—N.B. Miss Peecher and 


Miss Peecher’s pupils were not much encouraged 


in the unscholastic art of needle-work by Gov- 
ernment. 

Mary Anne with her face to the window held 
her arm up. 

‘*Well, Mary Anne?” 

‘*Mr. Headstone coming home, ma’am.” 

In about a minute, Mary Anne again hailed. 

**Yes, Mary Anne ?” 

“*Gone in and locked his door, ma’am.”’ 

Miss Peecher repressed a sigh as she gathered 
her work together for bed, and transfixed that 
part of her dress where her heart would have 
been if she had had the dress on with a sharp, 
. sharp needle. 


———————— 


CHAPTER II. 
STILL EDUCATIONAL. 


Tue person of the house, doll’s dress-maker 
and manufacturer of ornamental pin-cushions 
and pen-wipers, sat in her quaint little low arm- 
chair, singing in the dark, until Lizzie came 
back. The person of the house had attained 
that dignity while yet of very tender years in- 
deed through being the only trust-worthy person 
in the house. 

‘** Well Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie,” said she, break- 
ing off in her song. ‘* What’s the news out of 
doors ?” 

‘*What’s the news in doors ?” returned Lizzie, 
playfully smoothing the bright long fair hair 
which grew very luxuriant and beautiful on the 
head of the doll’s dress-maker. 

‘Let me see, said the blind man. Why the 
last news is, that I don’t mean to marry your 
brother.” 

6 No eg 

‘*No-o,” shaking her head and her chin. 
‘Don’t like the boy.” - 

‘* What do you say to his master?” 

**T say that I think he’s bespoke.” 

Lizzie finished putting the hair carefully back 
over the misshapen shoulders, and then light- 
-ed acandle. It showed the little parlor to be 
dingy, but orderly and clean. She stood it on 
the mantle-shelf, remote from the dress-maker’s 
eyes, and then put the room door open, and the 
house door open, and turned the little low chair 
and its occupant toward the outer air. It was 
a sultry night, and this was a fine-weather ar- 
rangement when the day’s work was done. ‘To 
complete it, she seated herself in a chair by the 
side of the little chair, and protectingly drew un- 
der her arm the spare hand that crept up to her. 

‘This is what your loving Jenny Wren calls 
the best time in the day and night,” said the 
person of the house. Her real name was Fan- 
ny Cleaver; but she had long ago chosen to be- 
stow upon herself the appellation of Miss Jenny 
Wren. * 

‘‘T have been thinking,” Jenny went on, ‘‘as 


| looked prodigiously knowing. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


I sat at work to-day, what a thing it would be 


if I should be able to have your company till I ~ 


am married, or at least courted. Because when 
I am courted, I shall make Him do some of the 
things that you do for me. He couldn’t brush 
my hair like you do, or help me up and down 
stairs like you do, and he couldn’t do any thing 
like you do; but he could take my work home, 
and he could call for orders in his clumsy way. 
And he shall too. 
tell him!” 5 

Jenny Wren had her personal vanities—hap- 
pily for her—and no intentions were stronger in 
her breast than the various trials and torments 
that were, in the fullness of time, to be inflicted 
upon ‘*‘ him.” . 

‘* Wherever he may happen to be just at pres- 
ent, or whoever he may happen to be,” said Miss 
Wren, ‘“‘/ know his tricks and-his manners, and 
I give him warning to look out.” 

**Don’t you think you are rather hard upon 


PU trot him about, I can ~ 


him ?” asked her friend, smiling, and smoothing — 


her hair. 

‘*Not a bit,” replied the sage Miss Wren, 
with an air of vast experience. ‘‘My dear, 
they don’t care for you, those fellows, if you’re 
not hard upon’em. But I was saying If I should 
be able to have your company. Ah! Whata 
large If! Ain’t it?” aay 

‘‘T have no intention of parting company, 
Jenny.” 

**Don’t say that, or you'll go directly.” 

‘** Am I so little to be relied upon?” 

‘*You’re more to be relied upon than silver 
and gold.” As she said it Miss Wren suddenly 
broke off, screwed up her eyes and her chin, and 
** Aha! 

** Who comes here? 

* A Grenadier. 

** What does he want? 

‘* A pot of beer. 

And nothing else in the world, my dear!” 

A man’s figure paused on the pavement at the 
outer door. ‘‘Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, ain’t it?” 
said Miss Wren. 

**So I am told,” was the answer. 

**You may come in, if you’re good.” 


‘*T am not. good,” said Eugene, ‘‘but-Pll — 


come in.” 

He gave his hand to Jenny Wren, and he 
gave his hand to Lizzie, and he stood leaning 
by the door at Lizzie’s side. He had been stroll- 


ing with his cigar, he said (it was smoked out _ 


and gone by this time), and he had strolled 


‘round to return in that direction that he might 


e 


look in as he passed. Had she not seen ‘her ~ 


brother to-night ? 
‘* Yes,” said Lizzie, whose manner was a lit- 
tle troubled. 


ay 
i): 


Gracious condescension on our brother’s part! 
Mr. Eugene Wrayburn thought he had passed © 
my young gentleman on the bridge yonder. 


Who was his friend with him ? 

‘“*'The schoolmaster,” 

‘To be sure. Looked like it.” 

Lizzie sat so still that one could not have said 
wherein the fact of her manner being troubled 
was expressed; and yet one could not have 
doubted it. 


might have been rather more perceptible that 
his attention was concentrated upon her for cer- 


Eugene was as easy as ever; but 
perhaps, as she sat with her eyes cast down, it 


‘eid WX 


. gene. 


‘work and do it. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


tain moments, than its concentration upon any 
subject for any short time ever was elsewhere. 

‘¢T have nothing to report, Lizzie,” said Eu- 
‘¢ But, having promised you'that an eye 
should be always kept on Mr. Riderhood through 
my friend Lightwood, I like occasionally to re- 
new my assurance that I keep my promise, and 
keep my friend up to the mark.” 

‘“*T should not have doubted it, Sir.” 

“Generally, I confess myself a man to be 
doubted,” returned Eugene, coolly, ‘‘for all 
that.” ; 

“Why are you?” asked the sharp Miss Wren, 

“‘ Because, my dear,” said the airy Eugene, 
“‘T am a bad idle dog.” 

‘“Then why don’t you reform and be a good 
dog ?” inquired: Miss Wren. 

‘‘Because, my dear,’ returned Eugene, 
*‘there’s nobody who makes it worth my while. 
Have you considered my suggestion, Lizzie?” 
This in a lower voice, but only as if it were a 
graver matter; not at all to the exclusion of 
the person of the house. 

“‘T have thought of it, Mr. Wrayburn, but I 
have not been able to make up my mind to ac- 
cept it.” 

‘False pride!” said Eugene. 

**T think not, Mr. Wrayburn. I hope not.” 

‘False pride!” repeated Eugene. ‘‘ Why, 
what else is it? The thing is worth nothing in 
itself. The thing is worth nothing to me. 
What can it be worth to me? You know the 
most I make of it. I propose to be of some use 
to somebody—which I never was in this world, 
and never shall be on any other occasion—by 
paying some qualified person of your own sex 
and age so many (or rather so few) contempti- 


-ble shillings to come here certain nights in the 


week, and give you certain instructions which 
you Wouldn’t want if you hadn’t been a self-de- 
nying daughter and sister. You know that it’s 
good to have it, or you would never have so de- 
voted yourself to your brother’s having it. Then 
why not have it: especially when our friend Miss 


Jenny here would profit by it too? If I pro- 


posed to be the teacher, or to attend the lessons 
—obviously incongruons! —but as to that, I 
might as well be on the other side of the globe, 
or not on the globe at all. False pride, Lizzie. 
Because true pride wouldn’t shame, or be shamed 
by, your thankless brother.’ True pride wouldn’t 


‘have schoolmasters brought here, like doctors, 


to look at a bad case. True pride would go to 
You know that well enough, 
for you know that your own true pride would do 
it to-morrow if you had the ways and means, 
which false’ pride won’t let me supply. Very 
well. I add no more than this. Your false 
pride does wrong to yourself, and does wrong to 


your dead father.” 


‘¢How to my father, Mr. Wrayburn?” she 


_ asked, with an anxions face. 


“¢ How to your father? Can you ask! By 
perpetuating the consequences of his ignorant 
and blind obstinacy. By resolving not to set 
right the wrong he did you. By determining 
that the deprivation to which he condemned 
you, and which he forced upon you, shall al- 


‘ways rest upon his head.” 


It chanced to be a subtle string to sound, in 


her who had so spoken to her brother within the 


~ hour. 


It sounded far more forcibly, because of 


111 


the change in the speaker for the moment; the 


passing appearance of earnestness, complete con- 


viction, injured resentment of suspicion, gener- 
ous and unselfish interest. All these qualities, 
in him usually so light and careless, she felt to 
be inseparable from some touch of their oppo- 
sites in her own breast. She thought, had she, 
so far below him and so different, rejected this 
disinterestedness because of some vain Misgiv- 
ing that he sought her out, or heeded any per- 
sonal attractions that he might descry in: her? 
The poor girl, pure of heart and purpose, could 
not bear to think it. Sinking before her own 
eyes as she suspected herself of it, she drooped 
her head as though she had done him some 
wicked and grievous injury, and broke into si- 
lent tears. 

‘‘Don’t be distressed,” said Eugene, very, 
very kindly. ‘I hope it is not I who have dis- 
tressed you. J meant no more than to put the 
matter in its true light before you; though I 
acknowledge I did it selfishly enough, for I am 
disappointed.” 

Disappointed of doing her a service. 
else could he be disappointed ? 

‘Tt won’t break my heart,” laughed Eugene; 
‘Cit won’t stay by me eight-and-forty hours; 
but Iam genuinely disappointed. 1 had set my 
fancy on doing this little thing for you and for 
our friend Miss Jenny. ‘The novelty of my do- 
ing any thing in the least useful had its charms. 
I see now that I might have managed it better. 
I might have affected to do it wholly for our 
friend Miss J. I might have gotemyself up, 
morally, as Sir Eugene Bountiful. But upon 
my soul I can’t make flourishes, and I would 
rather be disappointed than try.” 

If he meant to follow home what was in Liz- 
zie’s thoughts, it was skillfully done. If he fol- 
lowed it by mere fortuitous coincidence, it was 
done by an evil chance. 

‘Tt opened out so naturally before me,” said 
Eugene. ‘‘The ball seemed so thrown into my 
hands by accident! I happen to be originally 
brought into contact with you, Lizzie, on those 
two oceasions that you know of. I happen to 
be able to promise you that a watch shall be 
kept upon that false accuser, Riderhood. I hap- 
pen to beable to give you some little consolation 
in the darkest hour of your distress, by assuring 
you that I don’t believe him. On the same oc- 
casion I tell you that I am the idlest and least 
of lawyers, but that I am better than none, in a 
case I have noted down with my own hand, and 
that you may be always sure of my best help, 
and incidentally of Lightwood’s too, in your ef- 
forts to clear your father. So it gradually takes 
my fancy that I may help you—so easily !—to 
clear your father of that other blame which I 
mentioned a few minutes ago, and which is a 
just and real one. I hope I have explained 
myself, for I am heartily sorry to have distressed 
you. I hate to claim to mean well, but I really 
did mean honestly and simply well, and I want 
you to know it.” 

‘¢T have never doubted that, Mr. Wrayburn,” 
said Lizzie; the more repentant the less he 
claimed. 

‘‘T am very glad to hear it. Though if you 
had quite understood my whole meaning at first, 
I think you would not have refused. Do you 
think you would ?” 


How 


112 


‘‘—I don’t know that I should, Mr. 
burn.” 

Well! 
stand it-?” 

** It’s not easy for me to talk to you,” returned 
Lizzie, in some confusion, ‘for you see all the 
eonsequences of what I say as soon as I say it.” 

‘*Take all the consequences,” laughed Eu- 
gene, ‘‘and take away my disappointment. 
Lizzie Hexam, as I truly respect you, and as I 
am your friend and a poor devil of a gentleman, 
I protest I don’t even now understand why you 
hesitate.” 

There was an appearance of openness, trust- 
fulness, unsuspecting generosity, in his words 
and manner, that won the poor girl over; and 
not only won her over, but again caused her to 
feel as though she had been influenced by the 
opposite qualities, with vanity at their head. 

**I will not hesitate any longer, Mr. Wray- 
burn. I hope you will not think the worse of 
me for having hesitated at all. For myself and 
for Jenny—you let me answer for you, Jenny 
dear ?” 

The little creature had been leaning back, ‘at- 
tentive, with her elbows resting on the elbows of 
her chair, and her chin upon her hands, With- 
out changing her attitude, she answered, ‘* Yes!” 
so suddenly that it rather seemed as if she had 
chopped the monosyllable than spoken it. 

‘For myself and for Jenny, I thankfully ac- 
cept your kind offer.” 

‘“Agreed! Dismissed!” said Eugene, giving 
Lizzie his hand before lightly waving it, as if he 
waved the whole subject away. ‘I hope it may 
not be often that so much is made of so little.” 

Then he fell to talking playfully with Jenny 
Wren. ‘‘I think of setting up a doll, Miss Jen- 
ny,”’ he said. 

“You had better not, ”’replied the dress-maker. 

Wry not ?” 

**You are sure to break it. 
do.” 

‘But that makes good for trade, you know, 
Miss Wren,” returned Eugene. “Munch as 
People’s breaking promises and contracts and 
bargains of all sorts makes good for my trade.” 

**t don’t know about that,” Miss Wren re- 
torted; ‘‘bat you had better by half set up a 
pen-wiper, and turn industrious, and use it.” 

* Why, if we were all as industrious as you, 
little Busy-Body, we should begin to work as 
soon as we could crawl, and there would be a 
bad thing!” 

‘Do you mean,” returned the little creature, 


Wray- 


Then why refuse now you do under- 


All you children 


with a ‘flush suffusing hér face, ‘‘ bad for your | 


backs and your legs ?” ; 
“*No, no, no,” said Eugene; shocked—to do 


him justice—at the thought of trifling with her. 
‘* Bad for business, bad for business. | 
If we all set to work as soon as we could use our 
hands, it would be all over with the dolls’ dress-_ 


infirmity. 


makers.” 
‘‘There’s something in that,” replied Miss 
Wren; ‘‘you have a sort of an idea in your 


noddle sometimes.” Then, in a changed tone, | 


** Talking of ideas, my Lizzir,” they were sitting 
_ bide by side as they had sat at first, “I wonder 


how it happens that when I am work, work, . 
working here, all alone in the summer-time, I | 


smell flowers,” 
** As a commonplace individual, I should say,” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Eugene suggested languidly—for he was growing 
weary of the person of the héuse—‘‘that you 
smell flowers because you do smell flowers.” 

‘No I don’t,” said the little creature, resting 
one arm upon the elbow of her chair, resting her 
chin upon that hand, and looking vacantly be- 
fore her; ‘‘ this is not a flowery neighborhood, 
It’s any thing but that. And yet as I sit at 
work I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses 
till { think I see the rose-leayes lying in heaps, 
bushels, on the floor. I smell fallen leayes till 
I put down my hand—so-—and expect to make 
them rustle. I smell the white and the pink 
May in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that 
I never was among. For I have seen very few 
flowers indeed in my life.” 

‘+ Pleasant fancies to have, Jenny dear !” said 
her friend: with a glance toward Eugene as if 
she would have asked him whether they were 
given the child in compensation for her losses. 

‘*So I think, Lizzie, when they come to me. 
And the birds I hear! Oh!” cried the little 
creature, holding out her hand and looking up- 
ward, ‘* how they sing!” 

There was something in the face and action for 
the moment quite inspired and beautiful. Then 
the chin dropped musingly upon the hand again, 

‘‘Y dare say my birds sing better than other 
birds, and my flowers smell befter than other 
flowers. For when I was a little child,” in a 
tone.as though it were ages ago, ‘‘the children 
that I used to see early in the morning were very 
different from any others that I ever saw. They 
were not like me; they were not chilled, anx- 
ious, ragged, or beaten; they were never in 
pain. ‘They were not like the children of the 
neighbors; they never made me tremble all over 
by setting up shrill noises, and they never mock- 
ed me. Such numbers of them too! All in 
white dresses, and with something shining on 
the borders, and on their heads, that I have 
never been able to imitate with my work, though 
I know it so well. They used to come down in 
Jong bright slanting rows, and say all together, 
‘Who is this in pain! Who is this in pain!’ 
When I told them who it was, they answered, 
‘Come and play with us!’ When I said “I nev. 
er play! I can’t play! they swept about me 
and took me up, and made me light. Then it 
was all delicious ease and rest till they laid me 
down, and said, all together, ‘Have patience, 
and we will come again.’ Whenever they came 
back, I used to know they were coming before 
I saw the long bright rows, by hearing them 
ask, all together a long way. off, ‘Who is this 
in pain! who is this in pain!’ And I used to 
cry out, ‘O my blessed children, it’s poor me, 
Have pity on me. Take me up and make me 
light!’”’ 

By degrees, as she progressed in this remem- 
branece, the hand was raised, the late ecstatic 
look returned, and she became quite beautiful, 
Having so paused for a moment, silent, with a 
listening smile upon her face, she looked round 
and recalled herself. 

‘What poor fun you think me; don’t you, 
Mr, Wrayburn? You may well look tired of 
me. But it’s Saturday night, and I won’t de- 
tain vou,” . 


“That is to say, Miss Wren,” observed Eu- 


gene, quite ready to profit by the hint, ‘you 
wish me to go ?” ee 


Ciliation. 


Miss Wren. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


¢¢Well, it’s Saturday night,” she returned, 
*¢and my child’s coming home. And my child 
is a troublesome bad child, and costs me a world 
of scolding. I would rather you didn’t see my 
child.” 

‘© A doll.?” said Eugene, not understanding, 
and looking for an explanation. 

But Lizzie, with her lips only, shaping the 
two words, ‘‘Her father,” he delayed no lon- 
ger. He took his leave immediately. At the 
corner of the street he stopped to light another 
cigar, and possibly to ask himself ‘what he was 
doing otherwise. If so, the answer was indefin- 
ite and vague. Who knows what he is doing 
who is careless what he does ! : 

A man stumbled against him as he turned 
away, who mumbled some maudlin apology. 
Looking after this man, Eugene saw him go in 
at the door by which he himself had just come 
out. 2 

‘On the man’s stumbling into the room Lizzie 
rose to leave it. 

“Don’t go away, Miss Hexam,” he said in a 
submissive manner, speaking thickly and with 
difficulty. ‘* Don’t fly from unfortunate man in 
shattered state of health. Give poor invalid 
honor of your company. It ain’t—ain’t catch- 
ing.” 

Lizzie murmured that she had something to 
do in her own room, and went away up stairs. 

“¢How’s my Jenny?” said the man, timidly. 
‘¢How’s my Jenny Wren, best of children, ob- 
ject dearest affections broken-hearted invalid ?” 

To which the person of the house, stretching 
out her arm in an attitude of command, replied 
with irresponsive asperity : ‘‘Go along with you! 
Go along into your corner! Get into your cor- 
ner directly!” 

The wretched spectacle made as if he would 
have offered some remonstrance ; but not ven- 
turing to resist the person of the house, thought 
better of it, and went and sat down on a partic- 
ular chair of disgrace. 

‘¢Qh-h-h!” cried the person of the house, 
pointing her little finger. ‘‘You bad old boy! 
QOh-h-h you naughty, wicked creature! What 
do you mean by it ?” 

The shaking figure, unnerved and disjointed 


from head to foot, put out its two hands a little 


way, as making overtures of peace and recon- 
Abject tears stood in its eyes, and 
stained the blotched red of its cheeks. The 
swollen lead-colored under lip trembled with a 
shameful whine. The whole indecorous thread- 
bare ruin, from the broken shoes to the prema- 
turely-gray scanty hair, groveled. Not with 
any sense worthy to be called a sense, of this 
dire reversal of the places of parent and child, 
but in a pitiful expostulation to be let off from 
ascolding. ~ 

“¢T know your tricks and your manners,” cried 
‘¢ J know where you’ve been to!” 
ich indeed it did not require discernment to 

iscover). ‘*Oh, you disgraceful old chap!” 

The very breathing of the figure was contempt- 
ible, as it labored and rattled in that operation, 
like a blundering clock. 

“Slave, slave, slave, from morning to night,” 


pursued the person of the house, ‘‘and all for | 


this! What do you mean by it?” 
There was something in that emphasized 


113 


ure, As often as the person of the house work- 
ed her way round to it—even as soon as he saw 
that it was coming—he collapsed in an extra 
degree. 

‘‘T wish you had been taken up, and locked 
up,” said the person of the house. ‘‘I wish you 
had been poked into cells and black holes, and 
run over by rats and spiders and beetles. J know 
their tricks and their manners, and they’d have 
tickled you nicely. Ain’t you ashamed of your- 
self ?” 

‘¢Yes, my dear,” stammered the father. 

‘‘Then,” said the person of the house, terrify- 


ing him by a grand muster of her spirits and 


forces before recurring to the emphatic word, 
‘¢What do you mean by it?” 

¢¢ Circumstances over which had no control,” 
was the miserable creature’s plea in extenuation. 

‘¢ 71] circumstance you and control you too,” 
retorted the person of the house, speaking with 
vehement sharpness, ‘‘if you talk in that way. 
I'll give you in charge to the police, and have 
you fined five shillings when you can’t pay, and 
then I won’t pay the money for you, and you'll 
be transported for life. How should you like to 
be transported for life ?” 

‘¢Shouldn’t like it. Poor shattered invalid. 
Trouble nobody long,” cried the wretched figure. 

‘¢ Come, come !”’ said the person of the house, 
tapping the table near her in a business-like 
manner, and shaking her head and her chin; 
‘you know what you’ve got to do. Put.down 
your money this instant.” 

The obedient figure began to rummage in its 
pockets. | 

‘¢Spent a fortune out of your wages, [ll be 
bound!” said the person of the house. ‘*‘ Put it 
here! All you’ve got left! Every farthing!” 

Such a business as he made of collecting it 
from his dogs’-eared pockets; of expecting it in 
this pocket, and not finding it; of not expecting 
it in that pocket, and passing it over; of finding 
no pocket where that other pocket ought to be! 

‘Ts this all??? demanded the person of the 
house, when a confused heap of pence and shil- 
lings lay on the table. 

‘‘Got no more,” was the rueful answer, with 
an accordant shake of the head. 

‘Let me make sure. You know what you've 
got to do. Turn all your pockets inside out, 
and leave ’em so!” cried the person of the house. 

He obeyed. And if any thing could have 
made him look more abject or more dismally 
ridiculous than before, it would have been his 
so displaying himself. er 

‘‘ Here’s but seven and eight-pence half-pen- 
ny!” exclaimed Miss Wren, after reducing the 
heap to order. ‘*Oh, you prodigal old son! | 
Now you shall be starved.” ; 

‘¢No, don’t starve me,” he urged, whimper- 
He 
‘<If you were treated as you ought to be,” 
said Miss Wren, ‘‘ you’d be fed upon the skew- 
ers of cats’ meat ;—only the skewers, after the 
cats had had the meat. As it is, go to bed.” 

When he stumbled out of the corner to com~- 
ply, he again put out both his hands, and plead- 
ed: ‘Circumstances over which no control—” — 

‘Get along with you to bed!” cried Miss 
Wren, snapping him up. ‘‘Don’t speak to me, 
I’m not going to forgive you. Go to bed this 


“What,” which absurdly frightened the fig- i moment !” 


° 


\4 


ih { 


i 


WY Goon 


| 


\ 


het ag OF 


: 


EG 


ae 
p/h 
S———_—— 


L 


| 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


s . 


N Nt 


x 
TRI 
RNY 


THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE AND THE BAD CHILD. 


Seeing another emphatic ‘‘ What’ upon its 
way, he evaded it by complying, and was heard 
to shufiis heavily up stairs, and shut his door, 
and throw himself on his bed. Within a little 
while afterward Lizzie came down. 

‘* Shall we have our supper, Jenny dear?” 

‘“Ah! bless us and save us, we need have 
something to keep us going,” returned Miss Jen- 
ny, shrugging her shoulders. 

Lizzie laid a cloth upon the little bench (more 
handy for the person of the house than an ordi- 
nary table), and put upon it such plain fare as 
they were accustomed to have, and drew up a 
stool for herself. 

‘*Now for supper! 
of, Jenny darling?” 

‘*T was thinking,” she returned, coming out 
of a deep study, ‘‘what I would do to Him if 
he should turn out a drunkard.” 


What are you thinking 


**Oh, but he won’t,” said Lizzie. 
take care of that, beforehand.” 

“I shall try to take care of it beforehand, but 
he might deceive me. Oh, my dear, all those 
fellows with their tricks and their manners do 
deceive!” With the little fist in full action. 
‘‘And if so, I tell you what I think I’d do. 
When he was asleep, I’d make a spoon red-hot,’ 
and I'd have some boiling liquor bubbling in a 
sauce-pan, and I’d take it out hissing, and I’d 


Vou lt 


open his mouth with the other hand—or perhaps _ 
he’d sleep with his mouth ready open—and I’d — ia 


pour it down his throat, and blister it and choke 
him.” 


‘fam sure you would do no such horrible 
thing,” said Lizzie. . 

‘Shouldn't 1? Well; 
But I should like to!” 


‘*T am equally sure you would not.” 


‘ a, t 


Sige 


Ay) 
1A 


perhaps I shouldn't. < 


- Duke Street, Saint James’s. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘Not even like to? Well, you generally 
know best. Only you haven't always lived 
among it as I have lived—and your back isn’t 
bad and your legs are not queer.” 

As they went on with their supper Lizzie 
tried to bring her round to that prettier and 
better state. But the charm was broken. The 
person cf the house was the person of a house 
full of sordid shames and cares, with an upper 
room in which that abased figure.was infecting 
even innocent sleep with sensual brutality and 
degradation. The doll’s dress-maker had be- 
come a little quaint shrew; of the world, world- 
ly; of the earth, earthy. 

- Poor doil’sdress-maker! How often so dragged 
down by hands that should have raised her up; 
how often so misdirected when losing her way 
on the eternal road, and asking guidance. Poor, 
poor little doll’s dress-maker !” 


Cp Se ee 


CHAPTER III. 
A PIECE OF WORK. 


BRITANNIA, sitting meditating one fine day 
(perhaps in the attitude in which she is present- 
ed on the copper coinage), discovers all of a 
sudden that she wants Veneering-in Parliament. 
It occurs to her that Veneering is ‘‘a represent- 
ative man’—which can not in these times be 


* donbted—and that Her Majesty’s faithful Com- 


mons are incomplete without him. So, Britan- 
nia mentions to a legal gentleman of her ac- 
quaintance that if Veneering will ‘‘ put down” 
five thousand pounds, he may wiite a couple of 
initial letters after his name at the extremely 
cheap rate of two thousand five hundred per 
letter. It is clearly understood between Britan- 
nia and the legal gentleman that nobody is to 
take up the five thousand pounds, but that be- 
ing put down they will disappear by magical 
conjuration and enchantment. 

The legal gentleman in Britannia’s confidence 
going straight from that lady to Vencering, thus 
commissioned, Veneering declares himself high- 
ly flattered, but requires breathing-time to as- 
certain ‘‘ whether his friends will rally round 
him.” Above all things, he says, it behooves 
him to be clear, at a crisis of his importance, 
“‘whether his friends will rally round him.” 
The legal gentleman, in the interests of his cli- 
ent can not allow much time for this purpose, 
as the lady rather thinks she knows somebody 
prepared to put down six thousand pounds; but 
he says he will give Veneering four hours. 

Veneering then says to Mrs. Veneering, ‘‘ We 
must work,” and throws himself into a Hansom 
cab. Mrs. Veneering in the same moment re- 
linquishes baby to Nurse; presses her aquiline 
hands upon her brow, to arrange the throbbing 
intellect within; orders out the carriage; and 


Tepeats in a distracted and devoted manner, 


compounded of Ophelia and any self-immolat- 
ing female of antiquity you may prefer, ‘‘We 


- must work.” 


Veneering having instructed his driver to 


charge at the Public in the streets, like the 


Life-Guards at Waterloo, is driven furiously to 
There, he finds 
Twemlow in his lodgings, fresh from the hands 


# 


of a secret artist who has been doing something . 


115 
to his hair with yolks of eggs. The process re- 
quiring that ‘[wemlow shall, for two hours after 
the application, allow his hair to stick upright 
and dry gradually, he is in an appropriate state 
for the receipt of startling intelligence ; looking 
equally like the Monument on Fish Street Hill, 
and King Priam on a certain incendiary occa- 
sion not wholly unknown as a. neat point from 
the classics. 

‘*My dear 'Twemlow,” says Veneering, grasp- 
ing both his hands, ‘‘as the dearest and oldest 
of my friends—”’ 

(‘* Then there can be no more doubt about it 


in future,” thinks Twemlow, ‘‘and I am!”’) 


‘¢_ Are you of opinion that your cousin, Lord 
Snigsworth, would give his name as a Member 
of my Committee? I don’t go so far as to ask 
for his lordship; I only ask for his name. Do 
you think he would give me his name ?” 

In sudden low spirits, Twemlow replies, ‘‘I 
don’t think hé would,” 

‘““My political opinions,” says Veneering, not 
previously aware of having any, ‘‘are identical 
with those of Lord Snigsworth, and perhaps as 
a matter of public feeling and public principle 
Lord Snigsworth would give me his name.” 

““It might be so,” says Twemlow; ‘*but—” 
And perplexedly scratching*his head, forgetful 
of the yolks of eggs, is the more discomfited by 
being reminded how sticky he is. 

‘‘Between such old and intimate friends as 
ourselves,’ pursues Veneering, ‘‘there should 
in such a case be no reserve. Promise me that 
if I ask you to do any thing for me which you 
don’t like to do, or feel the slightest difficulty 
in doing, you will freely tell me so.” 

This Twemlow is so kind as to promise, with 
every appearance of most heartily intending to 
keep his word. 

‘¢ Would you have any objection to write down 
to Snigsworthy Park, and ask this favor of Lord 
Snigsworth? Of course if it were granted I 
should know that I owed it solely to you; while 
at the same time you would put it to Lord Snigs- 
worth entirely upon public grounds, Would you 
have any objection ?” 

Says ‘T'wemlow, with his hand to his forehead, 
‘¢You have exacted a promise from me.” 

‘‘T have, my dear T'wemlow.” 

‘¢ And you expect me to keep it honorably.” 

‘“¢T do, my dear Twemlow.” 

‘“©On the whole, then;—observe me,” urges 
Twemlow, with great nicety, as if, in the case. 
of its having been off the whole, he would have 
done. it directly—‘‘on the whole, I ‘must beg 
you to excuse me from addressing any com- 
munication to Lord Snigsworth.” : 

‘“‘ Bless you, bless you!” says Veneering ; hor- 
ribly disappointed, but grasping him by both 
hands again, in a particularly fervent manner. 

It is not to be wondered at that poor Twem- 
low should decline to inflict a letter on his no-. 
ble cousin (who has gout in the temper), inas- 
much as his noble cousin, who allows him a 
small annuity on which he lives, takes it out of 
him, as the phrase goes, in extreme severity ; 
putting him, when he visits at Snigsworthy Payk, 
under a kind of martial law; ordaining that he 
shall hang his hat on a particular peg, sit on a 
particular chair, talk on particular subjects to 
particular people, and perform particular exer- 
cises; such as sounding the praises of the Fam- 


97 


116 
ily Varnish (not to say Pictures), and abstain- 
ing from the choicest of the Family Wines un- 
less expressly invited to partake. 

“One thing, however, I can do for you,” says 
Twemlow; ‘and that is, work for you.” 

Vencering blesses him again. r 

‘Pll go,” says Twemlow, in a rising hurry 
of spirits, ‘‘to the club;—let us see now; what 
o’clock is it?” 

“Twenty minutes to eleven.”’ 

_ **Pll be,” says Twemlow, ‘‘at the club by ten 
minutes to twelve, and I’ll never leave it all day.” 

Veneering feels that his friends are rallying 
round him, and says, ‘‘Thank you, thank you. 
I knew I could rely upon you. I said to Anas- 
tatia before leaving home just now to come to 
you—of course the first friend I have seen on a 
subject so momentous to me, my dear Twem- 
low—I said to Anastatia, ‘We must work.’ ” 

‘You were right, you were right,” replies 
Twemlow. ‘Tell me. Is she working ?” 

** She is,” says Veneering. 

**Good !” cries Twemlow, polite little gentle- 
man that he is. ‘‘A woman’s tact is invalua- 
ble, ‘To have the dear sex with us is to have 
every thing with us.” 

** But you have not imparted to me,” remarks 
Veneering, ‘‘ what You think of my entering the 
House of Commons ?” 

‘*T think,” rejoins Twemlow, feelingly, ‘‘ that 
it is the best club in London.” 

Veneering again blesses him, plunges down 
stairs, rushes into his Hansom, and directs the 
driver to be up and at the British Public, and 
to charge into the City. 

Meanwhile Twemlow, in an increasing hurry 
of spirits, gets his hair down as well as he can— 
which is not very well; for, after these glutin- 
ous applications it is restive, and has a surface 
on it somewhat in the nature of pastry—and 
gets to the club by the appointed time. At the 
club he promptly secures a large window, writ- 
ing materials, and all the newspapers, and es- 
tablishes himself, immovable, to be respectfully 
contemplated by Pall Mall. . Sometimes, when 
a man enters who nods to him, Twemlow says, 
**Do you know Veneering ?” Man says, ‘* No; 
member of the club?” Twemlow says, “ Yes. 
Coming in for Pocket-Breaches.” Man says, 
““ Ah! Hone he may find it worth the money!” 
yawns, and saunters out. Toward six o’clock 


of the afternoon Twemlow begins to persuade 
eee £ 


himself that he is positively jaded with work, 


~ and thinks it much to be regretted that he was 


not brought up as a Parliamentary agent. 

From Twemlow’s, Veneering dashes at Pod- 
snap’s place of business. Finds Podsnap read- 
ing the paper, standing, and inclined to be ora- 
torical over the astonishing discovery he has 
made, that Italy is not England. Respectfully. 
entreats Podsnap’s pardon for stopping the flow 
of his words of wisdom, and informs him what is 
in the wind. Tells Podsnap that their political 
opinions are identical. Gives Podsnap to un- 
derstand that he, Veneering, formed his political 
opinions while sitting at the feet of him, Pod- 
snap. Seeks earnestly to know whether Pod- 
snap “will rally round him ?” 

Says Podsnap, something sternly. “ Now, 
first of all, Veneering, do you ask my advice?” 

_ Veneering falters that as so old and so dear a 
friend— 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well,” says Pod- 
snap; ‘‘but have you made up your mind to ™ 
take this borough‘of Pocket-Breaches on its own 
terms, or do you ask my opinion whether you 
shall take it or leave it alone?” aed 

Veneering repeats that his heart’s desire and 
his soul’s thirst are, that Podsnap shall rally 
round him. 

‘‘ Now, I'll be plain with vou, Veneering,” 
says Podsnap, knitting his brows. ‘* You will 
infer that Z don’t care about Parliament, from 
the fact of my not being there ?” é 

Why, of course Veneering knows that! Of 
course Veneering knows that if Podsnap chose 
to go there, he would be there, in a space of 
time that might be stated by the light and 
thoughtless as a jiffy. 

‘It is not worth my while,” pursues Pod- 
snap, becoming handsomely mollified, ‘‘ and it 
is the reverse of important to my position. But 
it is not my wish to set myself up as law for 
another man differently situated. You think it _ 
is worth your while, and is important to your 
position. Is that so?” 

Always with the proviso that Podsnap will 
rally round him, Veneering thinks it is so. . 

‘¢Then you don’t ask my advice,” says Pod- 
snap. ‘Good. Then I won’t give it you. But 
you do ask my help. Good. Then I'll work 
for you.” 

Veneering instantly blesses him, and apprises 
him that Twemlow is already working. Pod-~ 
snap does not quite approve that any body should 
be already working—regarding it rather in the 
light of a liberty—but tolerates Twemlow, and 
says he is a well-connected old female who will 
do no harm. 

‘T have nothing very particular to do to-day,” 
adds Podsnap, ‘‘and I’ll mix with some influ- 
ential people. I had engaged myself to dinner, 
but Pll send Mrs Podsnap and get off going my- 
self, and [ll dine with you at eight. It’s im- 
portant we should report progress and compare 
notes. Now let me see. You ought to have a 
couple of active, energetic fellows, of gentleman- 
ly manners, to go about.” 

Veneering, after cogitation, thinks of Boots. 
and Brewer. 

“Whom I have met at your house,” says Pod- 
snap. ‘*Yes. They'll do very well. Let them 
each have a cab, and go about.” 

Veneering immediately mentions what a bless- 
ing he feels it to possess a friend capable of such 
grand administrative suggestions, and really is 
elated at this going about of Boots and Brewer, 
as an idea wearing an electioneering aspect and 
looking desperately like business. Leaving Pod- 
snap, at a hand-gallop, he descends upon Boots 
and Brewer, who enthusiastically rally round 
him by at once bolting off in cabs, taking oppo- 
site directions. Then Veneering repairs to the 
legal gentleman in Britannia’s confidence, and 
with him transacts some delicate affairs of busi- 
ness, and issues an address to the independent 
electors of Pocket-Breaches, announcing that he 
is coming among them for their suffrages, as the 
mariner returns to the home of his early child- 
hood: a phrase which is none the worse for his 
never having been near the place in his life, and 
not even now distinctly knowing where it is. 

Mrs. Veneering, during the same eventful 
hours, is not idle. No sooner does the carriage 


Wee 2" 


‘the world! 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


turn ont, all complete, than she turns into it, all 
complete, and gives the word ‘‘To Lady Tip- 
pins’s.” ‘That charmer dwells over a stay-maker’s 
in the Belgravian Borders, with a life-size mod- 
el in the window on the ground-floor, of a dis- 
tinguished beauty in a blue petticoat, stay-lace 
in hand, looking over her shoulder at the town 
in innocent surprise. As well she may, to find 
herself dressing under the circumstances. 
-Lady Tippins at home? Lady Tippins at 
home, with the room darkened, and her back 
(like the lady’s at the ground-floor window, 
though for a different reason) cunningly turned 
toward the light. Lady Tippins is so surprised 
by seeing her dear Mrs. Veneering so early—in 
the middle of the night, the pretty creature calls 
it—that her eyelids almost go up, under the in- 
fluence of that emotion. 

To whom Mrs. Veneering incoherently com- 
municates, how that Veneering has been offered 
Pocket-Breaches; how thatit is the time for ral- 
lying round; how that Veneering has said, ‘‘We 
must work ;” how that she is here, as a wife and 
mother, to entreat Lady Tippins to work ; how 
that the carriage is at Lady Tippins’s disposal 
for purposes of work; how that she, proprie- 
tress of said bran-new elegant equipage, will re- 
turn home on foot—on bleeding feet, if need be 


—to work (not specifying how) until she drops 


by the side of baby’s crib. 
*“My love,” says: Lady Tippins, ‘‘ compose 
yourself; we'll bring him in.” And Lady Tip- 


’ pins really does work, and work the Veneering 


horses too; for she clatters about town all day, 
calling upon every body she knows, and show- 
ing her entertaining powers and green fan to 
immense advantage, by rattling on with, My 
dear soul, what do you think? What do you 
suppose me to be? You'll never guess. I’m 
pretending to be an electioneering agent. And 
for what place of all places? Pocket-Breaches. 
And why? Because the dearest friend I have 
in the world has bought it. And who is the 
dearest friend I have in the world?) A man of 
the name of Veneering. Not omitting his wife, 
who is the other dearest friend I have in the 
world; and I positively declare I forgot their 
baby, who is the other. And we are carrying 
on this little farce to keep up appearances, and 
isn’t it refreshing! Then, my precious child, 


the fun of-it is that nobody knows who these 


Veneerings are, and that they know nobody, and 
that they have a house out of the Tales of the 
Genii, and give dinners out of the Arabian 
Nights, Curious to see ’em, my dear? Say 
you'll know ’em. Come and dine with ’em. 
They sha’n’t bore you. Say who shall meet 
you. We'll make up a party of our own, and 
I’|l engage that they shall not interfere with you 
for one single moment. You really ought to see 
their gold and silver camels. ‘I call their din- 
ner-table the Caravan. Do come and dine with 
my Veneerings, my own Veneerings, my ex- 
elusive property, the dearest friends I have in 
And above all, my dear, be sure 
you promise me your vote and interest and all 


sorts of plumpers for Pocket-Breaches; for we 
-couldn’t think of spending sixpence on it, my 


love, and can only consent to be brought in by 
the spontaneous thingummies of the incorrupt- 


‘ible whatdoyoucallums. 


Now the point of view seized by the be- 


117) 


witching Tippins, that this same working and 
rallying round is to keep up appearances, may 
have something in it, but not all the truth, 
More is done, or considered to be done—which 
does as well—by taking cabs, and ‘‘ going about,” 
than the fair Tippins knew of. Many vast vague 
reputations have been made solely by taking 
cabs and goingabout. This particularly obtains 
in all Parliamentary affairs. Whether the busi- 
ness in hand be to get a man in, or get a man 
out, or get a man over, or promote a railway, or 
jockey a railway, or what else, nothing is under- 
stood to be so effectual as scouring nowhere ina 
violent hurry—in short, as taking cabs and going 
about. 

Probably because this reason is in the air, 
Twemlow, far from being singular in his persua- 
sion that he works like a Trojan, is capped by 
Podsnap, who in his turn is capped by Boots 
and Brewer. At eight o’clock, when all these 
hard workers assemble to dine at Veneering’s, it 
is understood that the cabs of Boots and Brewer 
mustn’t leave the door, but that pails of water 
must be brought from the nearest baiting-place, 
and cast over the horses’ legs on the very spot, 
lest Boots and Brewer should have instant occa- 
sion to mount and away. ‘Those fleet messen- 
gers require the Analytical to see that their hats 
are deposited where they can be laid hold of at 
an instant’s notice; and they dine (remarkably 
well, though) with the air of firemen in charge 
of an engine, expecting intelligence of some tre- 
mendous conflagration. 

Mrs. Veneering faintly remarks, as dinner 
opens, that many such days would be too much 
for her. 

‘“Many such days would be too much for all 
of us,” says Podsnap; ‘but we’ll bring him in!” 

‘¢ We'll bring him in,” says Lady Tippins, 
sportively waving her green fan. ‘‘ Veneering 
forever!” 

‘¢We'll bring him in!” says Twemlow. 

‘We'll bring him in!” say Boots and Brewer. 

Strictly speaking, it would be hard to show 
cause why they should not bring him in, Pocket- 
Breaches having closed its little bargain, and 
there being no opposition. However, it is agreed 
that they must ‘‘ work’ to the last, and that if 
they did not work, something indefinite would 
happen. It is likewise agreed that they are all 
so exhausted with the work behind them, and 
need to be fortified for the work before them, as 
to. require peculiar strengthening from Veneer- 
ing’s cellar. Therefore, the Analytical has or- 
ders to produce the cream of the cream of his 
bins, and therefore it falls out that rallying be- 
comes rather a trying word for the occasion; 
Lady Tippins being observed gamely to inculcate 
the necessity of rearing round their dear Veneer- 
ing; Podsnap advocating roaring round him 3 
Boots and Brewer declaring their intention of 
reeling round him; and Veneering thanking his 
devoted friends one and all, with great emotion, 
for rarullarulling round him. 

In these inspiring moments Brewer strikes 
out an idea which is the great hit of the day. 
He consults his watch, and says (like Guy 
Fawkes), he’ll now go down to the House of 
Commons and see how things look. 

‘I'll keep about the lobby for an hour or so,” 
says Brewer, with a deeply mysterious counte- 
nance; ‘‘and if things look well, I won't come 


118 


back, but will order my cab for nine in the morn- 
ing.” 

‘You couldn’t do better,”’ says Podsnap. 

Veneering expresses his inability ever to ac- 
knowledge this last service. Tears stand in Mrs. 
Veneering’s affectionate eyes. Boots shows envy, 
loses ground, and is regarded as possessing a 
second-rate mind. They all crowd to the door 
to see Brewer off. Brewer says to his driver, 
** Now, is your horse pretty fresh ?”’ eying the 
animal with critical scrutiny. Driver says he’s 
-as fresh as butter. ‘‘ Put him along, then,” says 
Brewer; ‘‘ House of Commons.” Driver darts 
up, Brewer leaps in, they cheer him as he de- 
parts, and Mr, Podsnap says, ‘‘ Mark my words, 
Sir. That’s a man of resource; that’s’a man to 
make his way in life.” 

When the time comes for Veneering to de- 
liver a neat and appropriate stammer to the men 
of Pocket-Breaches, only Podsnap and Twem- 
low accompany him by railway to that seques- 
tered spot. The legal gentleman is at the Pock- 
et-Breaches Branch Station, with an open car- 
riage, with a printed bill ‘*‘ Veneering forever !” 
Stuck upon it, as if it were a wall; and they 
gloriously proceed, amidst the grins of the popu- 
lace, to a feeble little town-hall on crutches, 
with some onions and boot-laces under it, which 
the legal gentleman says are a Market; and 
from the front window of that edifice Veneering 
‘speaks to the listening earth, In the moment 
of his taking his hat off, Podsnap, as per agree- 
ment made with Mrs. Veneering, telegraphs to 
that wife and mother, ‘‘ He’s up.” 

Veneering loses his way in the usual No 
Thoroughfares of speech, and Podsnap and 
Twemlow say Hear hear! and sometimes, when 
he can’t by any means back himself out of some 
very unlucky No Thoroughfare, ‘* He-a-a-r 
He-a-a-r!’’ with an air of facetious conviction, 
as if the ingenuity of the thing gave them a sen- 
sation of exquisite pleasure. But Veneering 
makes two remarkably good points; so good, 
that they are supposed to have been suggested 
to him by the legal gentleman in Britannia’s 
confidence, while briefly conferring on the 
Stairs, 

Point the first is this. Weneering institutes 
an original comparison between the country and 
a ship; pointedly calling the ship the Vessel of 
the State, and the Minister the Man at the 
Helm. Veneering’s object is to let Pocket- 
Breaches know that his friend on his right 
(Podsnap) is a man of wealth. Consequently 
says he, ‘‘ And, gentlemen, when the timbers 
of the Vessel of the State are unsound and the 
Man at the Helm is unskillful, would those great 
Marine Insurers, who rank among our world- 
famed merchant -princes— would they insure 
her, gentlemen? Would they underwrite her? 
Would they incur a risk in her? Would they 
have confidence in her? Why, gentlemen, if I 
appealed to my honorable friend upon my right, 


himself among the greatest and most respected | 


of that great and much-respected class, he would 
answer No!” 

- Point the second is this. The telling fact that 
Twemlow is related to Lord Snigsworth must be 
let off. Veneering supposes a state of public 

‘affairs that probably never could by any possi- 


bility exist (though this is not quite certain, in | 
consequence of his picture being unintelligible | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


to himself and every body else), and thus pro- 
ceeds: ‘*Why, gentlemen, if I were to indicate 
such a programme to any class of society, I say 
it would be received with derision, would be 
pointed at by the finger of scorn. If I indicated 
such a programme to any worthy and intelligent 
tradesman of your town—nay, I will here be 
personal, and say Our town—what would he re- 
ply? Hewould reply, ‘Away with it!’ That’s 


what he would reply, gentlemen. - In his honest — 


indignation he would reply, ‘Away with it! 
But suppose I mounted higher in the social 
scale. Suppose I drew my arm through the 
arm of my respected friend upon my left, and, 
walking with him through the ancestral woods 
of his family, and under the spreading beeches 
of Snigsworthy Park, approached the noble 
hall, crossed the court-yard, entered by. the 
door, went up the staircase, and, passing from 
room to room, found myself at last in the august 
presence of my friend’s near kinsman, Lord 
Snigsworth. “And suppose I said to that. ven- 
erable earl, ‘My Lord, I am here before your 


lordship, presented by your lordship’s near kins-- 


man, my friend upon my left, to indicate that 
programme ;’ what would his lordship answer ? 
Why, he would answer, ‘Away withit!’ That’s 
what he would answer, gentlemen. ‘ Away 


with it!’ Unconsciously using, in his exalted. 


sphere, the exact language of the worthy and 
intelligent tradesman of our town, the near and 
dear kinsman of my friend upon my left would 
answer in his wrath, ‘Away with it!” . 

Veneering finishes with this last success, and 
Mr. Podsnap telegraphs to Mrs. Veneering, 
‘* He’s down.” 

Then dinner is had at the Hotel with the legal 
gentleman, and then there are in due succession 
nomination and declaration. Finally Mr. Pod- 
snap telegraphs to Mrs. Veneering, ‘‘ We have 
brought him in.” : 

Another gorgeous dinner awaits them on their 
return to the Vencering halls, and Lady Tippins 
awaits them, and Boots and Brewer await them. 
There is a modest assertion on every body’s part 
that every body single-handed ‘‘brought him 
in;” but in the main it is conceded by all that 
that stroke of business on Brewer’s part, in go- 


ing down to the House that night to see how. 


things looked, was the master-stroke, 

A touching little incident is related by Mrs. 
Veneering in the course of the evening. Mrs. 
Veneering is habitually disposed to be tearful, 
and has an extra disposition that way after her 
late excitement. Previous to withdrawing from 
the dinner-table with Lady Tippins she says, in 
a pathetic and physically weak manner: 

** You will all think it foolish of me, I know, 
but I must mention it. As I sat by Baby’s 
crib, on the night before the election, Baby was 
very uneasy in her sleep.” 

The Analytical chemist, who is gloomily look- 
ing on, has diabolical impulses to suggest ‘‘ Wind” 
and throw up his situation; but represses them. 

‘‘ After an interval almost convulsive, Baby 
curled her little hands in one another and 
smiled.” 

Mrs, Veneering stopping here, Mr. Podsnap 
deems it incumbent 
why !” LS 

‘“‘Could it be, I asked myself,” says Mrs. 
Veneering, looking about her for her pocket- 


on him to say: ‘‘I wonder | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


I 


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ayy we 
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mae? 


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il 


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BRINGING HIM IN. 


handkerchief, ‘‘that the Fairies were telling 
Baby that her papa would shortly be an M.P. ?” 

So overcome by the sentiment is Mrs. Veneer- 
in.s that they all get. up to make a clear stage for 
Veneering, who goes round the table to the res- 


cus and bears her out backward, with her feet |- 
man. 


impressively scraping the carpet: after remark- 
iit that hor work has been too. much for her 
strength. Whether the fairies made any men- 
tion of the five thousand pounds, and it dis- 
agreed with Baby, is not speculated upon. 

Poor little Twemlow, quite done up, is touch- 
ed, and still continues touched after he is safely 
housed over the livery-stable yard in Duke Street, 
Saint James’s. But there, upon his sofa, a tre- 
méndous consideration breaks in upon the mild 
Svntleman, putting all softer considerations to 
the rout. 

“Gracious Heayens! Now I have time to 


think of it, he never saw one of his constituents 
in all his days until we saw them together!” 

After having paced the room in distress of 
mind, with his hand to his forehead, the inno- 
cent ‘Twemlow returns to his sofa.and moans: 

‘TY shall either go distraeted, or die, of this 
He comes upon me too late in life. I 
am not strong cnough to bear him!” 


Se ea 


CHAPTER IV. 
CUPID PROMPTED. 


To use the cold language of the world, Mrs. 
Alfred Lammle rapidly improved the acquaint- 
ance of Miss Podsnap. To use the warm lan- 
guage of Mrs. Lammle, she and her sweet Geor- 
giana soon became one—in heart, in mind, in 
seniiment, in soul, 


igsis 


120 


! 


Whenever Georgiana could escape from the 
thralldom of Podsnappery; could throw off the 
bed-clothes of the custard-colored phaeton, and 
get up; could shrink out of the range of her 
mother’s rocking, and (so to speak) rescue her 
poor little frosty toes from being rocked over ; 
she repaired to her friend, Mrs. Alfred Lammle. 
Mrs. Podsnap by no means objected. As a con- 
sciously ‘‘ splendid woman,” accustomed to over- 
hear herself so denominated by elderly osteolo- 
gists pursuing their studies in dinner society, 
Mrs. Podsnap could dispense with her daughter. 
Mr. Podsnap, for his part, on being informed 
where Georgiana was, swelled with patronage 
of the Lammles. That they, when unable to lay 
hold of him, should respectfully grasp at the hem 
of his mantle; that they, when they could not 
bask in the glory of him the sun, should take up 
with the pale reflected light of the watery young 
moon his daughter; appeared quite natural, be- 
coming, and proper. It gave him a better opin- 
ion of the discretion of the Lammles than he had 
heretofore held, as showing that they apprecia- 
ted the value of the connection. So, Georgiana 
repairing to her friend, Mr. Podsnap went out 
to dinner, and to dinner, and yet to dinner, arm 
in arm with Mrs. Podsnap: settling his obstinate 
head in his cravat and shirt-collar, much as if 
he were performing on the Pandean pipes, in 
his own honor, the triumphal march, See the 
conquering Podsnap comes, Sound the trumpets, 
beat the drums! 

It was a trait in Mr. Podsnap’s character (and 
in one form or other it will be generally seen to 
pervade the depths and shallows of Podsnap- 
pery), that he could not endure a hint ot dis- 
paragement of any friend or acquaintance of his. 
‘* How dare vou ?” he would seem to say, in such 
acase. ‘*Whatdoyou mean? I have licensed 
this person. This person has taken out my cer- 
tificate. Through this person you strike at me, 
Podsnap the Great. And it is not that I par- 
ticularly care for the person’s dignity, but that 
I do most particularly care for Podsnap’s.”’ 
Hence, if any one in his presence had presumed 
to doubt the responsibility of the Lammles, he 
would have been mightily huffed. Not that 
any one did, for Veneering, M.P., was always 
the authority for their being very rich, and per- 
haps believed it. As indeed he might, if he 
chose, for any thing he knew of the matter, 

Mr. and Mrs. Lammle’s house in Sackville 
Street, Piccadilly, was but a temporary resi- 
dence. {[t had done well enough, they informed 
their friends, for Mr. Lammle when a bachclor, 
but it would not do now. So they were always 
looking at palatial residences in the best situa- 


tions, and always very nearly taking or buying | 


one, but never’ quite concluding the bargain. 
Hereby they made for themselves a shining little 
reputation apart. People said, on seeing a va- 
cant palatial residence, ‘‘ The very thing for the 
Lammles!” and wrote to the Lammles about it, 
and the Lammles always went to look at it, but 
unfortunately it never exactly answered. In 


short, they suffered so many disappointments | 


that they began to think it would be necessary 
to build a palatial residence. And hereby they 
made another shining reputation; many persons 
of their acquaintance becoming by anticipation 
dissatisfied with their own houses, and envious 
of the non-existent Lammle structure, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ft ‘ 

The handsome fittings and furnishings of the 
house in Sackville Street were piled thick and 
high over the skeleton up stairs, and if it ever 
whispered from under its load of upholstery, 
‘‘ Here 1 am in the closet!” it was to very few 
ears, and certainly never to Miss Podsnap’s. 
What Miss Podsnap was particularly charmed 
with, next to the graces of her friend, was the 
happiness of her friend’s married life. This wag 
frequently their theme of conversation. 

‘“‘T am sure,” said Miss Podsnap, “ Mr, 
'Lammle is like a lover. At least I—I should 
think he was.” waka 

‘‘Georgiana, darling!” said Mrs. Lammle, 
holding up a forefinger, ‘‘ Take care!” 

‘¢Oh my goodness me !” exclaimed Miss Pode 
snap, reddening. ‘* What have I said now?” 

‘* Alfred, you know,” hinted Mrs, Lammle, 
playfully shaking her head. ‘‘ You were nevor 
to say Mr. Lammle any more, Georgiana.” 

“Oh! Alfred, then. Iam glad it’s no worse; 
I was afraid I had said something shocking. [I 
am.always saying something wrong to ma.” 

‘“To me, Georgiana dearest ?” 

I wish 


**No, not to you; you are not ma. 
you were.” 

Mrs. Lammle bestowed a sweet and loving 
smile upon her friend, which Miss Podsnap re- 
turned as she best could. They sat at lunch in 
Mrs. Lammle’s own boudoir. 

‘‘ And so, dearest Georgiana, Alfred is like 
your notion of a lover?” 

‘*T don’t say that, Sophronia,” Georgiana re- 
plied, beginning to conceal her elbows. ‘I 
haven’t any notion of a lover. The dreadful 
wretches that ma brings up at places to torment 
me are not Iovers, I only mean that Mr.—” 

** Again, dearest Georgiana ?” 

‘*That Alfred—” 

‘¢Sounds much better, darling.” 

** Loves you so. He always treats you with 
such delicate gallantry and attention. Now, 
don’t he?” 

‘Truly, my dear,” said Mrs. Lammle, with 
a rather singular expression crossing her face. 
‘I believe that he loves me fully as much as I 
love him.” 

‘Oh, what happiness!” exclaimed Miss Pod- 
snap. 

“*But do you know, my Georgiana,” Mrs. 
Lammle resumed presently, ‘‘ that there is some~. 
‘thing suspicious in your enthusiastic sympathy 
| with Alfred’s tenderness ?” 

**Good gracious no, I hope not!” 

**Doesn’t it rather suggest,” said Mrs. Lam- 
mle, archly, ‘‘that my Georgiana’s little heart. 
| 1s—osty 

**Oh don’t!” Miss Podsnap blushingly bee ¢ 
sought her. ‘‘Please don’t! I assure you, So- 
-phronia, chet I only praise Alfred because he is 
your huspand and so fond of you.” . 

Sophronia’s glance was as if a rather new 
light broke in upon her. It shaded off into a. 
cool-smile, as she said, with her eyes upon her 
lunch, and her eyebrows raised : Ram a 
| ‘‘ You are quite wrong, my love, in your guess 
-at my meaning. What I insinuated was, that 
my Georgiana’s little heart..was. growing~eon- 
scious of a vacancy.” : 
| “No, no, no,” said Georgiana. ‘‘I wouldn't — 

have any body say any thing to me in that way 
i for I don’t know how many thousand pounds.” 


+ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“In what way, my Georgiana?’’ inquired 
Mrs. Lammle, still smiling coolly, with her 
eyes upon her lunch, and her eyebrows raised. 

** You know,” returned poor little Miss Pod- 
snap. “I think I should go out of my mind, 
Sophronia, with vexation and shyness and de- 
testation, if any body did. It’s enough for me 
to see how loving you and your husband are. 
That's a different thing. I couldn’t bear to have 
any thing of that sort going on with myself. I 
should beg and pray to—to have the person 
taken away and trampled upon.” 

Ah! here was Alfred. Having stolen in un- 
observed, he playfully leaned on the back of So- 
phronia’s chair, and, as Miss Podsnap saw him, 
put one of Sophronia’s wandering locks to his 
lips, and waved a kiss from it toward Miss Pod- 
sfiap: 

‘What is this about husbands and detesta- 
tions ?” inquired the captivating Alfred. 

“Why, they say,” returned his wife, “that 
listeners never hear any good of themselves; 
though you—but pray how long have you been 
here, Sir?” 

** This instant arrived, my own.” 

“Then I may go on—though if you had been 
here but a moment or two sooner, you would 
have heard your praises sounded by Georgiana.” 

** Only, if they were to be called praises at all, 
which I really don’t think they were,” explain- 
ed Miss Podsnap in a flutter, “for being so de- 
voted to Sophronia.” 

“Sophronia!” murmured Alfred. ‘My life!” 
and kissed her hand. In return for which she 
kissed his watch-chain. 

‘* But it was not I who was to be taken away 
and trampled upon, I hope?” said Alfred, draw- 
ing a seat between them. 

‘* Ask Georgiana, my soul,” replied his wife. 

Alfred touchingly appealed to Georgiana. 

‘*Oh, it was nobody,” replied Miss Podsnap. 
“It was nonsense.” 

*‘But if you are determined to know, Mr. 
Inquisitive Pet, as I suppose you are,” said the 
happy and fond Sophronia, smiling, ‘it was 
any one who should venture to aspire to Geor- 
giana,” 

‘* Sophronia, my love,” remonstrated Mr. 
Lammle, becoming graver, ‘‘you are not scri- 
cus ?” 

** Alfred, my love,” returned his wife, ‘I dare 
say Georgiana was not, but lam.” 

‘Now this,” said Mr. Lammle, ‘shows the 
accidental combinations that there are in things! 
Could you believe, my Ownest, that I came in 
here with the name of an aspirant to our Gcor- 
giana on my lips?” 

‘Of course I could believe, Alfred,” said Mrs. 
Lammle, ‘‘any thing that you told me.” 

“You dear one! And I any thing that you 
told me.” 

How delightful those interchanges, and the 
looks accompanying them! Now, if the skele- 
ton up stairs had taken that opportunity, for in- 
Stance, of calling out ‘‘Here I am, suffocating 
in the closet!” 

‘I give you my honor, my dear Sophronia—” 

**And I know what that is, love,” said she. 

“You do, my darling—that I came into the 
room all but uttering young Fledgeby’s name, 
Tell Georgiana, dearest, about voung Fledgeby,” 
“Oh: no, don’t! ek don't!” cricd Miss 


121 
Podsnap, putting her fingers in her ears. “I'd 
rather not.” 

Mrs. Lammle laughed in her gayest manner, 
and, removing her Georgiana’s unresisting hands, 
and playfully holding them in her own at arms’- 
length, sometimes near together and sometimes 
wide apart, went on: 

‘You must know, you dearly beloved little 
goose, that once upon a time there was a cer- 
tain person called young Fledgeby. And this 
young Fledgeby, who was of an excellent fam- 
ily and rich, was known to two other certain 
persons, dearly attached to one another and 
called Mr. and Mrs, Alfred Lammle. So this 
young Fledgeby, being one night at the play, 
there sees, with Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lammile, a 
certain heroine called—” 

‘* No, don’t say Georgiana Podsnap!” plead- 
ed that young lady, almost in tears. “Please 
don’t. Oh do do do say somebody else! Not 
Georgiana Podsnap. Oh don’t, don’t, don’t!” 

‘* No other,” said Mrs. Lammle, laughing air- 
ily, and, full of affectionate blandishments, open- 
ing and closing Georgiana’s arms like a pair of 
compasses, ‘‘than my little Georgiana Podsnap. 
So this young Fledgeby goes to that Alfred 
Lammle:and says—” 

‘* Oh ple-e-e-ease don’t!” eried Georgiana, as 
if the supplication were being squeezed out of 
her by powerful compression. ‘‘I so hate him 
for saying it!” 

‘For saying what, my dear?” laughed Mrs, 
Lammle. 

‘*Oh, I don’t know what he said,” cried Geor- 
giana, wildly, ‘“‘but I hated him all the same 
for saying it.” 

** My dear,” said Mrs. Lammle, always laugh- 
ing in her most captivating way, ‘‘ the poor young 
fellow only says that he is stricken all of a heap.” 

‘Qh, what shall I ever do!” interposed Geor- 
giana, ‘*Oh my goodness what a Fool he must 
be re 

‘‘_—And implores to be asked to dinner, and 
to make a fourth at the play another time. 
And so he dines to-morrow and goes to the. 
Opera with us. That’s all. Except, my dear 
Georgiana—and what will you think of this !-— 
that he is infinitely shyer than you, and far 
more afraid of you than you ever were of any 
one in all your days!” 

In perturbation of mind Miss Podsnap still 
fumed and plucked at her hands a little, but 
could not help laughing at the notion of any 
body’s being afraid of her. With that advant- 
age, Sophronia flattered her and rallied her more 
successfully, and then the insinuating Alfred 
flattered her and rallied her, and promised that 
at any moment when she might require that serv- 
ice at his hands he would take young Fledgeby 
out and trample on him. Thus it remained - 
amicably understood that young Fledgeby was 
to come to admire, and that Georgiana was to 
come to be admired; and Georgiana, with the 
entirely new sensation in her breast of having 
that prospect before her, and with many kisses 
from her dear Sophronia in present possession, 
preceded six feet one of discontented footman 
(an amount of the article that always came for 
her when she walked home) to her father’s dwell- 
ing. 

The happy pair being left together, Mrs.. 
Lammile said to her husband: 


. 
' 


122 . OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“Tf I understand this girl, § 
ous fascinations have wrodueed some effect upon 
her. I mention the conquest in good time, be- 
cause I apprehend your scheme to be more im- 
portant to you than your vanity.” 

There was a mirror on the wall before them, 
and her eyes just caught him smirking in it. 
She gave the reflected image a look of the deep- 
est disdain, and the image received it in the 
glass. Next moment they quietly eyed each 
other, as if they, the principals, had had no part 
in that expressive transaction. 

It may have been that Mrs. Lammle tried in 
some manner to excuse her conduct to herself 
by ee the poor little victim of whom 
she spoke with acrimonious contempt. It may 
have been too that in this she did not quite suc- 
ceed, fur it is very difficult to resist confidence, 
and she knew she had Georgiana’s. 

Nothing more was said between the happy 
pair. Perhaps conspirators who have once es- 
tablished an undéfstanding, may not be over- 
fond of repeating the terms and objects of their 
conspiracy. Next day came ; came Georgiana ; 
and came Fledgeby. 

Georgiana had by this time seen a good deal 
of the house and its frequenters. As there was 
a certain handsome room with a billiard-table 
in it—on the ground-floor, eating out a back- 
yard—which might have been Mr. Lammle’s 
office. or library, but was called by neither name, 
but simply Mr. Lammle’s room, so it would have 
been hard for stronger female heads than Geor- 
giana’s to determine whether its frequenters were 
men of pleasure or men of business. Between 
the room and the men there were strong points 
of general resemblance. Both were too gaudy, 
too slaugey, too odorous of cigars, and too much 
given to horse-flesh; the latter characteristic 
being exemplified in the room by its decorations, 
and in the men by their conversation. High- 
stepping horses seemed necessary to all Mr. 
Lammile’s friends—as necessary as their trans- 
action of business together in a gipsy way at un= 
timely hours of the morning and evening, and in 
rushes and snatches. ‘There were friends» who 
seemed to be always coming and going across 
the Channel, on errands about the Bourse, and 
Greek and Spanish and India and Mexican and 
par and premium and discount and tliree quar- 
ters and seven eighths. There were other friends 
who seemed to be always lolling and lounging 
in and out of the City, on questions of the Bourse, 
aud Greek and Spanish and India and Mexican 
and par and premium and discount and three 
quarters and seven eighths. They were all fe- 
verish, boastful, and indefinably loose; and they 
all ate and drank a great deal; and made bets 
in eating and drinking. They all spoke of sums 
of money, and only mentioned the sums and left 
the money to be understood: as ‘‘ five and for- 
ty thousand Tom,” or ‘* Two hundred and twen- 
ty-two on every individual share in the lot Joe.” 
They seemed to divide the world into tio classes 
of people; people who were making: enormous 
fortunes, and people who were being enormous- 
ly ruined. They were always in a hurry, and 
yet seemed to have nothing tangible to do : eXx- 
cept a few of them (these, mostly asthmatic and 
thick-lipped) who were forever demonstrating to 
the rest, with gold pencil-cases which they could 


hardly hold because of the big rings on their | 


Sir, your danger-. 


‘ 
forefingers, how money was to be made. Lastly, 
they all swore at their grooms, and the grooms 
were not quite.as respectful or complete as other 
men’s grooms; seeming somehow to fall short. 


of the groom point as their masters fell short of 


the gentleman point. 

Young Fledgeby was none of these. Young 
Fledgeby had a peachy cheek, or.a cheek com- 
pounded of the peach and the red red red wall 
on which it grows, and was an awkward, sandy- 
haired, small-eyed youth, exceeding slim (his 
enemies would have said lanky), and prone to 
self-examination in the articles of whisker and 
mustache. 
he anxiously expected, Fledgeby underwent re- 
markable fluctuations of spirits, ranging along 
the whole scale from confidence to despair, 
There were times when he started, as exclaim- 
ing ‘* By Jupiter, hert it is at last!” There were 


other times when, being equally depressed, he. 


would be seen to shake his head, and give up 
hope. ‘To see him at those periods leaning ona 
chimney-piece, like as on an urn containing the 
ashes of his ambition, with the cheek that would 
not sprout, upon the hand on which that cheek 
had forced conviction, was a distressing sight. 

Not so was Fledgeby seen on this occasion. 
Arrayed in superb raiment, with his opera hat 
under his arm, he concluded his self-examina- 
tion hopefully, awaited the arrival of Miss Pod- 
snap, and talked small-talk with Mrs. Lammle. 
In facetious homage to the smallness of his talk, 
and the jerky nature of his manners, Fledgeby’s 
familiars had agreed to confer upon him (be- 
hind his back) the honorary title of Fascination 
Fledgeby. 

‘“Warm weather, Mrs. Lammle,’ said Fas- 
cination Fledgeby. “Mrs. Lammle thought it 
scarcely as W arm as it had been yesterday. 
‘‘ Perhaps not,” said Fascination Fledgeby. with 
great quickness of repartee; ‘‘but I expect. it 
will be devilish warm to-morrow.” 

He threw off another little scintillation. ‘* Been 
out to-day, Mrs. Lammle?”’ 

Mrs. Lammle answered, for a short drive. 

**Some people,” said Fascination Fledgeby, 
‘‘are accustomed to take long drives; but it 
generally appears to me that if they make ’em 
too long, they overdo it.” 

Being in such feather, he might have sur- 
passed himself in his next sally, had not Miss 
Podsnap been announced. Mrs. Lammle flew 
to embrace her darling little Georgy, and when 
the first transports were over, presented Mr, 
Fledgeby. ‘Mr. Lammle came on the scene last, 


for he was always late, and so were the frequent- ~ 
ers always late; all hands being bound to be | 


made late, by private information about the 
Bourse, and Greek and Spanish and India and 
Mexican and par and premium and discount and 
three quarters and seven eighths. 


A handsome little dinner was served imme- 


diately, and Mr. Lammle sat sparkling at his 
end of the table, with his servant behind his 
chair, and his ever-lingering doubts upon the 


subject of his wages behind himself. Mr. Lam- 


mle’s utmost powers of sparkling were in requi- 
sition to-day, for Fascination Fledgeby and 


Georgiana not only. struck each other speech- 


less, but struck each other into astonishing atti- 
tudes; Georgiana, as she sat facing Fledgeby, — 


making such efforts to conceal her elbows as. 


While feeling for the whisker that | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


were totally incompatible with the use of a knife 
and furk; and Fledgeby, as he sat facing Georgi- 
ana, avoiding her countenance by every possible 
device, and betraying the discomposure of his 
mind in feeling for his whiskers with his spoon, 
his wine-glass, and his bread. 

So Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lammle had to 
prompt, and this 1 is how they prompted. 

“* Georgiana,” said Mr. Lammle, low and 
smiling, and sparkling all over like a harle- 
quin; ‘‘ you are not in your ‘sual spirits. Why 
are you not in your usual spirits, Georgiana ?” 

Georgiana faltered that she was much the 
same as she was in general; she was not aware 
of being different. 

*** Not aware of being different!” retorted Mr. 
Alfred Lammle. ‘‘You, my dear Georgiana! 
who were always so natural and unconstrained 
with us!-who are such a relicf from the crowd 

. that are all alike! who are the embodiment. of 
gentleness, simplicity, and reality!” 

Miss Podsnap looked at the door, as if. she 
entertained confused thoughts of taking refuge 
from these compliments in flight. 

“Now, I will be judged,” said Mr. Lammle, 
raising his voice a little, ‘‘by my friend Fledge- 
by.” 

“Oh pon’t!” Miss Podsnap faintly ejaculated: 
when. Mrs. Lammle took the prompt-book. 

“¢{ beg your pardon, Alfred, my dear, but I 
can not part with Mr. Fledgeby quite yet; you 
must wait for-him amoment. Mr. Fledgeby and 
I are engaged in a personal discussion.” 

Vledgeby must have conducted it on his side 
with immense art, for no appearance of uttering 
one syllable had escaped him. 

** A personal discussion, Sophronia, my love ? 
What discussion? Fledgeby, I am _ jealous. 
What en Fledgeby ?” 

“Shall I tell him, Mr. Fledgeby ?” asked 
Mrs. Lammle. 


Trying to look as if he knew any thing about | 


it, Fascination replied, ‘‘ Yes, tell him.” 
‘¢We were discussing then,” said Mrs. Lam- 
“mile, ‘‘if you must know, Alfred, whether Mr. 
Fledgeby was in his usual flow of spirits.” 

‘Why, that is the very point, Sophronia, that 
Georgiana and [ were discussing as to herself! 
What did Fledgeby say ?” 

**Oh, a likely thing, Sir, that I am going to 
tell you every thing, and be told nothing! What 
did Georgiana say ?” 

**Georgiana said she was doing her usual jus- 
tice to herself to-day, and I said she was not.” 

‘¢ Precisely,” exclaimed Mrs, Lammle, ‘* what 
I said to Mr. Fledgeby.” 

Still wouldn’t do, They would not look at 
one another. No, not even when the sparkling 
host proposed that the quartette should take an 
appropriately sparkling glass of wine. Georgi- 
ana looked from her wine-glass at Mr. Lammle 

and at Mrs. Lammle; but mightn’t, couldn’t, 
shouldn't, wouldn’t, look at Mr. Fledgeby. Fas- 
cination looked from his wine-glass at Mrs. 
Lammle and at Mr. Lammle; but mightn’t, 
eouldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, look at Georgiana. 

More prompting was necessary. Cupid must 
be brought up to the mark. The manager had 
put him down in the bill for the part, and he 

must play it. 
Sophronia, my dear.” said Mr. Zammle, ‘ 
don’t like the color of your dress.” 


” 


ah | 


! 


/one another. 


123 


“‘T appeal,” aia Mrs. Lammle, ‘to Mr, 


Fledgeby.” 
‘* And I,” said Mr. Lammle, ‘‘to Georgiana.” 
‘*Georgy, my love,” remarked Mrs. Lammle 


aside to her dear girl, ‘‘I rely upon you not to 


go over to the opposition. 
by.” 

Fascination wished to know if the color were 
not called rose-color? Yes, said Mr. Lammle; 
actually he knew every thing ; it was really rose- 
color. Fascination took rose-color to mean the 
color of roses. (In this he was very warmly 
supported by Mr. and Mrs. Lammle.) Fascina- 
tion had heard the term Queen of Flowers ap- 
plied to the Rose. Similarly, it might be said 
that the dress was the Queen of Dresses. (‘* Very 
happy, Fledgeby!” from Mr. Lammle.) Not- 
withstanding, Fascination’s opinion was that-we 
all had our eyes—or at least a large majority of 
us—and that—and—and his further opinion was 
several ands, with nothing beyond them. 

“Oh, Mr. Fledgeby,” said Mrs. Lammle, “to 
desert me in that way! Oh, Mr. Fledgepy, to 
abandon my poor dear injured rose and declare 
for blue!” 

** Victory, victory!”  cned: Mr. 

“your dress is condemned, my dear.’ 

‘‘But what,” said Mrs. Lammle, stealing her 
affectionate hand toward her dear girl's, *¢ what 
does Georgy say ?” 

‘¢ She says,” replied Mr. Lammie, interpreting 
for her, ‘‘that in her eyes you look well in any 
color, Sophronia, and that if she had expected to 
be embarrassed by so pretty a compliment as she 
has received, she would have worn another color 
herself. Though I tell her, in reply, that it 
would not have saved her, for whatever color she 
had worn would have been Biedgeby’ s color. 
But what does Hledgeby say ?”’ 

‘‘Tie says,” replied Mrs. Lammle, fitebonees 
ing for him, and patting the back of her dear 
girl’s hand, as if it were Fledgeby who was pat- 
ting it, ‘‘that it was no compliment, but a little 
natural act of homage that he couldn’t resist. 
And,” expressing more feeling as if it were more 
feeling on the part of Fledgeby, ‘‘ he is right, he 
is right!” 
Stull, 


Now, Mr. Fledge- 


vi Lammle ; 


no not even now, would they look at 
Seeming to gnash his sparkling 
teeth, studs, eyes, and buttons, all at once, Mr. 
Lammie secretly bent a dark frown on the two, 
expressive of an intense desire to bring them to- 
gether by knocking their heads together. 
‘‘Have vou heard this opera of to-night, 
Fledgeby ?” he asked, stopping. very short, to 
prevent himself from running on into “ con- 


found vou.” 


‘‘ Why no, not exactly,” said Fledgeby. ‘‘In 
fact I don’t know a note of it.” 

‘* Neither do you know it, Georgy ?”” said Mrs. 
Lammle. 

‘‘N-no,” replied Georgiana, faintly, under the 
sympathetic coincidence. 

‘‘Why, then,” said Mrs. Lammle, charmed 
by the discovery which flowed from the prem- 


ises, ‘¢you neither of you know it! How charm- 


ling !” 


Even the craven Fledgeby felt that the time 
was now come when he must strike a blow. He 
struck it by saying, partly to Mrs. Lammle and 
partly to the circumambient air, ‘2 consider my-. 
self very fortunate in being reserved by—” 


é 


124 


As he stopped dead, Mr. Lammle, making 
that gingerous bush of his whiskers to look out 
of, offered him the word ‘‘ Destiny.” 

‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,” said Fledge- 
by. ‘‘I was going to say Fate. I consider it 
very fortunate that Fate has written in the book 
of—in the book which is its own property—that 
Ishould go to that opera for the first time under 
the memorable circumstances of going with Miss 
Podsnap.” 

To which Georgiana replied, hooking her two 
little fingers in one another, and addressing the 
table-cloth, ‘* Thank you, but I generally go with 
no one but you, Sophronia, and I like that very 
much,” 

Content perforce with this success for the time, 
Mr. Lammle let Miss Podsnap out of the room, 
as if he were opening her cage door, and Mrs. 
Lammle followed. Coffee being presently served 
up stairs, he kept a watch on Fledgeby until 
Miss Podsnap’s cup was empty, and then direct- 
ed him with his finger (as if that young gentle- 
man were a slow Retriever) to go and fetch it. 
This feat he performed, not only without failure, 
but even with the original embellishment-of in- 
forming Miss Podsnap that green tea was. con- 
sidered bad for the nerves. Though there Miss 
Podsnap unintentionally threw him out by falter- 
ing, ‘‘Oh, is it indeed? How does it act?” 
Which he was not prepared to elucidate. 

The carriage announced, Mrs. Lammle said, 
** Don’t mind me, Mr. Fledgeby, my skirts and 
cloak occupy both my hands; take Miss Pod- 
snap.” And he took her, and Mrs. Lammle 
went next, and Mr. Lammle went last, savagely 
following his little flock like a drover. 

But he was all sparkle and glitter in the box 
at the Opera, and there he and his dear wife 
made a conversation between Fledgeby and 
Georgiana in the following ingenious and skill- 
ful manner. They sat in this order: Mrs. Lam- 
mile, Fascination Fledgeby, Georgiana, Mr. Lam- 
mle. Mrs. Lammle made leading remarks to 
Fledgeby, only requiring monosyllabic replies. 
Mr. Lammle did the like with Georgiana. At 
times Mrs. Lammle would lean forward to ad- 
dress Mr, Lammle to this purpose. 

*‘Alfred, my dear, Mr. Fledgeby very justly 
says, apropos of the last scene, that true con- 
stancy would not require any such stimulant as 
the stage deems necessary.” To which Mr. 
Lammile would reply, ‘‘ Ay, Sophronia, my love, 
but as Georgiana has observed to me, the lady 
had no sufficient reason to know the state of the 
gentleman's affections.”” To which Mrs. Lam- 
mle would rejoin, ‘‘ Very true, Alfred; but Mr. 
Fledgeby points out,” this. To which Alfred 
would demur: ‘* Undoubtedly, Sophronia, but 
Georgiana acutely remarks,” that. Through this 
device the two young people conversed at great 
length and committed themselves to a variety 
of delicate sentiments, without having once open- 
ed their lips save to say yes or no, and even that 
not to one another. 

Fledgeby took his leave of Miss Podsnap at 
the carriage door, and the Lammles dropped 
her at her own home, and on the way Mrs. 
Lammle archly rallied her, in her fond and pro- 
tecting manner, by saying at intervals, ‘¢Oh 
little Georgiana, little Georgiana!” Which was 
not mucn; but the tone added, ‘‘ You have en- 
slaved your Fledgeby.” 


\ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. _ 


And thus the Lammles got home at last, and 


the lady sat down moody and weary, looking at- 


her dark lord engaged in a deed of violence’ 
with a bottle of soda-water as though he were 
wringing the neck of some unlucky creature and 
pouring its blood down his throat. As he wiped 
his dripping whiskers in an ogreish way, he met 
her eyes, and pausing, said, with no very gentle 
voice: 

‘* Well?” yi, 

‘‘Was such an absolute Booby necessary to 
the purpose ?”’ ae 

‘“‘T know what Iam doing. He is no such 
dolt as you suppose.” * 

‘* A genius, perhaps?” 

‘**You sneer, perhaps; and you take a lofty 
air upon yourself, perhaps! But I tell you this: 
—when that young fellow’s interest is concern- 
ed, he holds as tight as a horse-leech. When 
money is in question with that young fellow, he 
is a match for the Devil.”’ 

**Ts he a match for you?” 

‘*Heis. Almost as good a one as you thought 
me for you. He has no quality of youth in him 
but such as you have seen to-day. Touch him 
upon money, and you touch no booby then. 
He really is a dolt, I suppose, in other things; 
but it answers his one purpose very well.” 

‘‘Has she money in her own right in any 
case ?”” ) 

‘* Ay! she has money in her own right in any 
case. You have done so well to-day, Sophronia, 
that I answer the question, though you know J 
object to any such questions. You have done so 
well to-day, Sophronia, that you must be tirea, 
Get to bed.” 

En 


CHAPTER V. / 
MERCURY PROMPTING. 


FLEDGEBY deserved Mr. Alfred Lammle’s eu. 
logium. He was the meanest cur existing, with 
a single pair of legs. And instinct (a word we 
all clearly understand) going largely on four 
legs, and reason always on two, meanness on 
four legs never attains the perfection of mean- 
ness on two. 

The father of this young gentleman had been 
a money-lender, who had transacted professional 
business with the mother of this young gentle- 
man, when he, the latter, was waiting in the 
vast dark ante-chambers of the present world 
to be born. The lady, a widow, being unable 
to pay the money-lender, married him; and in 
due course, Fledgeby was summoned out of the 
vast dark ante-chambers to come and be pre- 
sented to the Registrar-General. Rather a cu- 
rious speculation how Fledgeby would otherwise 
have disposed of his leisure until Doomsday. 

Fledgeby’s mother offended her family by mar= 
rying Fledgeby’s father. ‘ It is one of the easiest 
achievements in life to offend your family when 
your family want to get rid of you. Fledgeby’s 
mother’s family had been very much offended 
with her for being poor, and broke with her for 
becoming comparatively rich. Fledgeby’s mo- 
ther’s family was the Snigsworth family. She 
had even the high honor to be cousin to Lord 
Snigsworth—so many times removed that the 
noble Earl would have had no compunetion in 


removing her one tims more and dropping her > 


~ 


4 
, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


\ 
clean outside the cousinly pale; but cousin for 
all that. 

Among her pre-matrimonial transactions with 
Fledgeby’s father, Fledgeby’s mother had raised 
money of him at a great disadvantage on a cer- 
tain reversionary interest. The reversion falling 
in soon after they were married, Fledgeby’s fa- 
ther laid hold of the cash for his separate use 
and benefit. This led to subjective differences 
of opinion, not to say objective interchanges of 
bootjacks, backgammon boards, and other do- 
mestic missiles, between Fledgeby’s father and 
Fiedgeby’s mother, and those led to Fledgeby’s 
mother spending as much monéy as she could, 


and to Fledgeby’s father doing all he couldn't to. 


restrain her. Fledgeby’s childhood had been, 
in consequence, a stormy one; but the winds 
and the waves had gone down in the grave, and 
Fledgeby flourished alone. 

He lived in chambers in the Albany, did 
Fledgeby, and maintained a spruce appearance. 
But his youthful fire was all composed of sparks 
from the grindstone ; and as the sparks flew off, 
went out, and never warmed any thing, be sure 
that Fledgeby had his tools at the grindstone, 
and turned it with a wary eye. 

Mr. Alfred Lammle came round to the Albany 
to breakfast with Fledgeby. Present on the ta- 
ble, one scanty pot of tea, one scanty loaf, two 
scanty pats of butter, two scanty rashers of ba- 
con, two pitiful eggs, and an abundance of hand- 
some china bought a second-hand bargain. 

-* What did you think of Georgiana?” asked 
Mr. Lammle. 

“Why, Ill tell you,” said Fledgeby, very de- 
liberately. 

** Do, my boy.” 

**You misunderstand me,” said Fledgeby. 
**T don’t mean I'll tell you that. I mean Dll 
tell you something else.” 

‘*'Pell me any thing, old fellow 

“* Ah, but there you misunderstand me again,” 
said Fledgeby. ‘*I mean I'll tell you nothing.” 

Mr. Lammle sparkled at him, but frowned at 
him too. 

“Look here,” said Fledgeby. ‘‘You’re deep 
and you're ready. Whether I am deep or not, 
never mind. I am not ready. But I can do 


q?? 


one thing, Lammle, I can hold my tongue.’ 


And I intend always doing it.” 
-**You aré’a long-headed fellow, Fledgeby,” 

‘*May be, or may not be. If I am a short- 
tongued fellow, it may amount to the same thing. 
Now, Lammle, I am never going to answer ques- 
tions.” 

‘¢ My dear fellow, it was the simplest question 
in the world.” 

‘‘Never mind. It seemed so, but things are 
not always what they seem. I saw a man ex- 
amined as a witness in Westminster Hall. Ques- 
tions put to him seemed the simplest in the 
world, but turned out to be any thing rather 
than that, after he had answered ’em. Very 
well. Then he should have held his tongue. 
if he had held his tongue he would have kept 
out of scrapes that he got into.” 

‘If I had held my tongue, you would never 
have seen the subject of my question,” remarked 
Lammle, darkening. 

“Now, Laimmilc,” said Fascination Fledgeby, 
calmly feeling for his whisker, ‘¢it won’t do. I 
won't be led on into a discussion, I can’t man- 


.. 

125 
age a discussion. But I can manage to hold 
my tongue.” : 

“Can?” Mr, Lammle fell back upon propi- 
tiation. ‘‘I should think you could! Why, 
when these fellows of our acquaintance drink 
and you drink with them, the more talkative 
they get, the more silent you get. The more 
they let out, the more you keep in.” 

‘*T don’t object, Lammle,” returned Fledge- 
by, with an internal chuckle, ‘‘to being under- 
stood, though I object to being questioned. That 
certainly 7s the way I do it.” 

‘* And when all the rest of us are discussing 
our ventures, none of us ever know what a sin- 
gle venture of yours is!” 

‘‘And none of you ever will from me, Lam- 
mle,” replied Fledgeby, with another internal 
chuckle; ‘‘that certainly is the way I do it.” 

‘‘Why of course it is, I know!” rejoined 
Lammle, with a flourish of frankness, and a 
laugh, and stretching out his hands as if to show 
the universe a remarkable man in Fledgeby. 
‘‘If I hadn’t known it of my Fledgeby, should 
I have proposed our little compact of advantage 
to my Fledgeby ?” } 

“Ah!” remarked Fascination, shaking his 
head slyly. ‘‘ But I am not to be got at in that 
way. Iam not vain....That-sortof-vanity don’t 
pay, Lammle. No, no, no. Compliments only 
make me hold my tongue the more.” 

Alfred Lammle pushed his plate away (no 
great sacrifice under the circumstances of there 
being so little in it), thrust his hands in his 
pockets, leaned back in his chair, and contem- 
plated Fledgeby in silence. Then he slowly re- 
leased his left hand from its pocket, and made 
that bush of his whiskers, still contemplating 
him in silence. Then he slowly broke silence, 
and slowly said: ‘‘ What—the—Dev-il is this 
fellow about this morning ?” 

‘*Now, look here, Lammle,”’ said Fascination 
Fledgeby, with the meanest of twinkles in his 
meanest of eyes: which were too near together, 
by-the-way: ‘‘look here, Lammle: I am very 
well aware that I didn’t show to advantage last 
night, and that you and your wife—who, I con- 
sider, is a very clever woman and an agreeable 
woman—did. Iam not calculated to show to 
advantage under that sort of circumstances. I 
know very well you two did show to advantage, 
and managed capitally. But don’t you on that 
account come talking to me as if I were your 
doll and puppet, because I am not.” 

‘¢And all this,’? cried Alfred, after studying 
with a look the meanness that was fain to have 
the meanest help, and yet was so mean as to 
turn upon it: ‘‘all this because of one simple 
natural question!” 

“You should have waited till I thought prop- 


er to say something about it myself. I don’t” 


like your coming over me with your Georgi- 
anas, as if you was her proprietor and mine 
too.” 

‘¢ Well, when you are in the gracious mind 
to say any thing about it of yourself,” retorted 
Lammle, ‘‘ pray do,” ' 

‘¢T have done it. I have said you managed 
capitally. You and your wife both. If you'll 
go on managing capitally, I'll go on doing my 
part. Only don’t crow.” 

“T crowd’? exclaimed Lammle, shrugging his 
shoulders. 


i 


126 


‘*Or,” pursued the other—‘“ or take it in your 
head that people are your puppets because they 
don’t come out to advantage at the particular 
moments when you do, with the assistance of a 
very clever and agreeable wife. All the rest 
keep on doing, and let Mrs. Lammle keep on 
doing. Now, I have held my tongue when I 
thought proper, and I have spoken when I 
thought proper, and there’s an end of that. And 
now the question is,’’ proceeded Fledgeby, with 
the greatest reluctance, ‘‘ will you have another 
egg oe? 

** No, I won't,” said Lammle, shortly. 

** Perhaps you’re right and will find yourself 
better without it,” replied Fascination, in great- 
ly improved spirits. ‘*To ask you if you'll 
have another rasher would be unmeaning flat- 
tery, for it would make you thirsty all day. 
Will you have some more bread and butter ?” 

** No, I won't,” repeated Lammle. 

*‘'Then I will,” said Fascination. And it was 
not a mere retort for the sound’s sake, but was 
a cheerful cogent consequence of the refusal ; 
for if Lammle had applied himself again to the 
loaf, it would have been so heavily visited, in 
Fledgeby’s opinion, as to demand abstinence 
from bread, on his part, for the remainder of 
that meal at least, if not for the whole of the 
next. 

- Whether this young gentleman (for he was 
but three-and-twenty) combined with the miser- 
Jy vice of an old man any of the open-handed 
vices of a young one, was a moot-point; so very 
honorably did he keep his own counsel. He 
was sensible of the value of appearances as an 
investment, and liked to dress well; but he 
drove a bargain for every movable about him, 
from the coat on his back to the china on his 
breakfast-table; and every bargain, by repre- 
senting somebody’s ruin or somebody’s loss, ac- 
quired a peculiar charm for him. It was a part 
of his avarice to take, within narrow bounds, 
long odds at races; if he won, he drove harder 
bargains; if he lost, he half-starved himself un- 
til next time. Why money should be so pre- 
cious to an Ass too dull and mean to exchange 
it for any other satisfaction, is strange 5 but 
there is no animal so sure to get laden with it 
as the Ass who sees nothing written on the face 
of the earth and sky but the three letters L. 
S. D.—not Luxury, Sensuality, Dissoluteness, 
which they often stand for, but the three dry 


letters. Your concentrated Fox is seldom com- 
parable to your concentrated Ass in money- 
breeding. 


Fascination Fledgeby feigned to be a young 

_ gentleman living on his means, but was known 
secretly to be a kind of outlaw in the billebrok- 
ing line, and to put money out at high interest 
in various ways. . His circle of familiar acquaint- 
ance, from Mr. Lammle round, all had a tonch 
of the outlaw, as to their rovings in the merry 


green-wood of Jobbery Fore-t, lying on the out-. 


skirts of the Share-Market and the Stock Ex- 
* change. 

“I suppose you, Lammle,” said Fledgehy, 
eating his bread and butter, “ always go in for 
female society ?” 

** Always,” replied Lammle, glooming con- 
siderably under his late treatment. 

‘‘Came natural to you, eh?” said Fledgeby. 

**’Phe sex were pleased to like me, Sir,”’ said 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. _ . 


Lammle, sulkily, but with the air of a man whe | 


had not been able to help himself. 


** Made a pretty good thing of marrying, didn’t 


you?” asked Fledgeby. hc Satie, 6 
The other smiled (an ugly smile), and tapped 
one tap upon his nose. 


‘* My late governor made a mess of it,” said’ 


Fledgeby. ‘But Geor— 
Georgina or Georgiana ?” 

‘* Georgiana.” m 

“I was thinking yesterday, I didn’t know 
there was such a name. I thought it must end 
in ina,” | 

66 Why 2 i] 

‘*Why, you play—if you can—the Concer- 


Is the right name> 


tina, you know,” replied Fledgeby, meditating | 


very slowly. ‘* And you have—when you catch 
it—the Scarlatina. And you can come down 
from a balloon in a parach— No you can’t 
though. Well, say Georgeute—I mean Georgi, 
ana.” . 

‘*You were going to remark of Georgiana— ?” 
Lammle moodily hinted, after waiting in vain.’ 

‘“*T was going to remark of Georgiana, Sir,” 
said Fledgeby, not at all pleased to be reminded 
of his having forgotten it, ‘‘that she don’t seem 
to be violent. Don’t seem to be of the pitching- 
order.” 

‘‘She has the gentleness of the dove, Mr. 
Fledgeby.” 

‘“‘Of course you'll say so,” replied Fledgeby, 
sharpening, the moment his interest was touched 
by another. . ‘‘ But you know, the real look-out 
is this: —what I say, not what yousay. I say— 
having my late governor and my late mother in 
my eye—that Georgiana don’t seem to be of the 
pitching-in order.” 

The respected Mr. Lammle was a bully, by 
nature and by usual practice. Perceiving, as 
Fledgeby’s affronts cumulated, that conciliation 
by no means answered the purpose here, he now 


directed a scowling look into Fledgeby’s small 


eyes for the effect of the opposite treatment. 
Satisfied by what he saw there, he burst into a 
violent passion and struck his hand upon the 
table, making the china ring and dance. 

‘“*You are a very offensive fellow, Sir,” cried 
Mr. Lammle, rising. ‘‘ You area highly offens- 
ive scoundrel. What do you mean by this be- 
havior ?” 

‘I say!” remonstrated Fledgeby. 
break out.” 

» “You are a very offensive. fellow, Sir,” re- 
peated Mr. Lammle. ‘‘ You are a highly offens. 
ive scoundrel!” 

‘*T say, you know !” urged Fledgeby, quailing. 

“Why, you coarse and vulgar vagabond !” 
said Mr. Lammle, looking fiercely about him, 
“if your servant was here to give me six-pence 
of your money to get my boots cleancd after- 
ward—for you are not worth the expenditure— 
I'd kick you.” ; 

*“No you wouldn’t,” pleaded Fledgeby. 
am sure youd think better of it.” 

**T tell you what, Mr. Fledgeby,” said Lam- 
mle, advancing on him. ‘Since you presume 
to contradict me, I’'Jl assert myself a little. Give 
me your nose !” 


‘¢ Don’t 


oe 


Fledgeby covered it with his hand instead, and’ 


said, retreating, ‘*I beg you won’t!” 
‘*Give me vour nose, Sir,” repeated Lammle. 


Sull covering that feature and backing, Mr. ~ 


_Fledgeby reiterated (apparently with a severe 
cold in his head), ‘‘I beg, I beg, you won’t.” 

** And this fellow,” exclaimed Lammle, stop- 
ping and making the most.of his chest—‘*'This 
fellow presumes on my having selected him out 
of all the young fellows I know, for an advanta- 
geous opportunity! ‘This fellow presumes on my 
having in my desk round the corner his dirty 
note of hand for a wretched sum payable on the 
occurrence of a certain event, which event can 
only be of my and my wife’s bringing about! 
This fellow, Fledgeby, presumes to be imperti- 
nent to me, Lammle. Give me your nose, Sir!” 

**No! Stop! I beg your pardon,” said Fledge- 
by, with humility. 

**What do you say, Sir?” demanded Mr. 
Lammle, seeming too furious to understand. 

“I beg your pardon,” repeated Fledgeby. 

‘Repeat your words louder, Sir. The just 
indignation of:a gentleman has sent the blood 
boiling to my head. I don’t hear you.” ~ - 

**T say,” repeated Fledgeby, with laborious 
explanatory politeness, ‘‘I beg your pardon.” 

Mr, Lammle paused. ‘‘ As a man of honor,” 
said he, throwing himself into a chair, “I am 
disarmed.” 

Mr. Fledgeby also took a chair, though less 
demonstratively, and by slow approaches re- 
moved his hand from his nose. Some natural 
diffidence assailed him as to blowing it, so short- 
ly after its having assumed a personal and deli- 
cate, not to say public, character; but he over- 
came his scruples hy degrees, and modestly took 
that liberty under an implied protest. 

“Lammile,” he said, sneakingly, when that was 
done, ‘‘I hope we are friends again 2” 

‘Mr. Fledgeby,” returned Lammle, ‘‘say no 
more.” 

*¢[ must have gone too far in making myself 
disagreeable,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘ but I never in- 
tended it.” 


“Say no more, say no more!” Mr. Lammle/ 


repeated in a magnificent tone. 
—Fledgeby started—‘* hand.” 

They shook hands, and on Mr. Lammle’s part, 
in particular, there ensued great geniality. For 
he was quite as much of a dastard as the other, 
and had been in equal danger of falling into the 
second place for good, when he took heart just 
in time to act upon the information conveyed 
to him by Fledgeby’s eye. 

The breakfast ended in a perfect understand- 
ing.. Incessant machinations were to be kept at 
work by Mr. and Mrs. Lammle; love was to be 
made for Fledgeby, and conquest was to be.in- 
sured to him; he on his part very humbly ad- 
mitting his defects as to the softer social-arts, 
and entreating to be backed to the utmost by his 
two able coadjutors. 

Little recked Mr, Podsnap of the traps and 
toils besetting his Young Person. He regarded 
her as safe within the Temple of Podsnappery, 
biding the fullness of time when she, Georgiana, 
should take him, Fitz-Podsnap, who with all his 
worldly goods should her endow. 
a blush into the cheek of his standard Young 
Person to have any thing to do with such mat- 
ters save to take as directed, and with worldly 
goods as per settlement to be endowed. Who 
giveth this woman to be married to this man? 
I, Podsnap. Perish the daring thought that any 
‘smaller creation should come between ! 


‘* Give me your” 


It would cally 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


nose until the afternvon. 


127 


It was a public holiday, and Fledgeby did not 
recover his spirits or his usual temperature of 
Walking into the City 
in the holiday afternoon, he walked against a 
living stream setting out of it; and thus, when 
he turned into the precincts of St. Mary Axe, he 
found a prevalent repose and quiet there. A 
yellow overhanging plaster-fronted house at which 
he stopped was quiet too. The blinds were all 
drawn down, and the inscription Pubsey and Co. 
seemed to doze.in the counting-house window on 
the ground-floor giving on the sleepy street. 

Fledgeby knocked and rang, and Fledgeby 
rang and knocked, but no one came. Fledgeby 
crossed the narrow street and looked up at the 
house-windows, but nobody looked down at 
Fledgeby. He got out of temper, crossed the 
narrow street again, and pulled the house-bell ag 
if it were the house’s nose, arid he were taking a 
hint from his late experience. His ear at the 
keyhole seemed then, at last, to give him assur- 
ance that something stirred within, His eye at 
the keyhole seemed to confirm his ear, for he 
angrily pulled the house’s nose again, and pulled 
and pulled and continued to pull, until a human 
nose appeared in the dark doorway, 

‘Now you, Sir!” cried Fledgeby. 
are nice games!” 

He addressed an old Jewish man in an an- 
cient coat, long of skirt, and wide of pocket. 
A venerable man, bald and shining at the top 
of his head, and with long gray hair fiowing 
down at its sides and mingling with his beard. 
A man who with a graceful Eastern action of 
homage bent his head, and stretched out his 
hands with the palms downward, as if to depre- 
cate the wrath of a superior. * 

‘‘ What have vou been up to?” said Fledge- 
by, storming at him. 

‘¢ Generous Christian master,” urged the Jew- 
ish man, ‘‘it being holiday I looked for’ no 
one.”’ 

‘* Holiday be blowed!” said Fledgeby, enter- 
ing. ‘*What have you got to do with holidays ? 
Shut the door,” 

With his former action the old man obeyed. 
In the entry hung his rusty large-brimmed low- 
crowned hat, as long out of date as his coat; in 
the corner near it stood his staff—no walking- 
stick, but a veritable staff. Fledgeby turned into 
the counting-house, perched himself on a busi- 
ness stool, and cocked his hat. There were 


‘<'These 


light boxes on shelves in the counting-houze, and 


strings of mock beads hanging up. There were 
samples of cheap clocks, and samples of cheap 
vases of flowers. Foreign toys, all. 

Perched on the stool, with his hat cocked on 
his head and one of his legs dangling, the youth 
of Fledgeby hardly contrasted to advantage with 
the age of the Jewish man as he stood with his 
bare head bowed, and his eyes (which he only 
raised in speaking) on the ground. His cloth- 
ing was worn down to the rusty hue of the hat 
in the entry, but though he looked shabby he did 
not look mean. Now, Fledgeby, though not 
shabby, did look mean, 

* You have not told me what you were up to, 
you, Sir,” said Fledgcby, scratching his head 
with the brim of his hat. 

‘¢ Sir, I was breathing the air.” 

‘(Tn the cellar, that-you didn’t hear ?”’ 

**On the house-top.” 


128 


“Upon my soul! 


That’s a way of doing 
business.” — = 


‘¢Sir,” the old man represented with a grave | 


and patient air, ‘‘there must be two parties to 


the transaction of business, and the holiday has | 


left me alone.”’ 


‘Ah! Can’t be buyer and seller too. That’s | 
| come, Mr. Riah, we know the arts of your people’ 
‘‘At least we say truly, if we say so,” an-| 
| it, fetch it; if it is not to be lent, keep it and say 


what the Jews say; ain’t it?” 


swered the old man with a smile. 

‘* Your people need speak the truth sometimes, 
for they lie enough,” remarked Fascination 
Fledgeby. 

*¢Sir, there is,” returned the old man with 
qiuet emphasis, ‘‘too much untruth among all 
enominations of men.” 4 

Rather dashed, Fascination Fledgeby fook 
another scratch at his intellectual head with his 
hat, to gain time for rallying. 

‘‘For instance,” he resumed, as though it/ 
were he who had spoken last, ‘‘who but you’ 
and I ever heard of a poor Jew?” 

“The Jews,” said the old man, raising hi: 
eyes from the ground with his former smile 
“They hear of poor Jews often, and are very 
good to them.” | 

“Bother that!’ returned Fledgeby. ‘You 
know what I mean. You'd persuade me if you 
could that you are a poor Jew. I wish you’d 
confess how much you really did make out of 
my late governor, I should have a better opin- 
ion of you.” 

The old man only bent his head, and stretched 
out his hands as before. 

‘*Don’t go on posturing like a Deaf and 
Damb School,” said the ingenious Fledgeby, 
‘“‘but express yourself like a Christiam—or as 
nearly as you can.” 

‘‘{ had had sickness and misfortunes, and 
was so poor,” said the old man, ‘‘as hopelessly 
to owe the father, principal and interest. The 
son inheriting, was so merciful as to forgive me 
both and place me. here.” 

He made a little gesture as though he kissed 
the hem of an imaginary garment worn by the 
noble youth before him. It was humbly done, 
but picturesquely, and was not abasing to the 
doer. 

‘*You won’t say more, I see,” said Fledgeby, 
looking at him as if he would like to try the ef- 
fect of extracting a double-tooth or two, ‘‘and 
s0 it’s of no use my putting it to you. But con- 
fess this, Riah ; who believes you to be poor now?” 

‘* No one,” said the old man. 

‘*‘There you’re right,” assented Fledgeby. 

‘* No one,” repeated the old man with a grave 
slow wave of his head. ‘* All scout it as a fable. 
Were I to say ‘This little fancy business is not 
mine ;’” with a lithe sweep of his easily-turhing 
hand around him, to comprehend the various 
objects on the shelves; ‘‘‘it is the little busi- 
ness of a Christian young gentleman who places 
me, his servant, in trust and charge here, and 
to whom I am accountable for every single 
bead,’ they would laugh. When, in the larger 
money-business, I tell the borrowers—” 

_ “Tsay, old chap!” interposed Fledgeby, ‘I 
hope you mind what you do tell *em ?” 

*¢ Sir, I tell them no more than [ am about to 
repeat. When I tell them, ‘I can not promise 
this, I can not answer for the other, I must see. 
my principal, I have not the money, Fam a poor 


{ 


| | : 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ay | 


man, and it does not rest with me,’ they are so 
unbelieving and so impatient, that they some- 
times curse me in Jehovah’s name.” , 


‘¢'That’s deuced good, that is!” said Fascina-. | 


tion Fledgeby. 
‘And at other times 
be done without these tricks, Mr. Riah? Come, 


—my people !—‘ If the money is to be lent, fetch 
so.” They never believe me.” 

“* That's all right,” said Fascination Fledgeby. 

‘*’They say, ‘ We know, Mr. Riah, we know: 
We have but to look at you, and we know.’” 

‘* Oh, a good ’un are you for the post,” thought 
Fledgeby, ‘‘and a good ’un was I to mark you 
out for it! I may be slow, but I am precious 
isuire.” 

Not a syllable of this reflection shaped itself 
in any scrap of Mr. Fledgeby’s breath, lest it 
should tend to put his servant’s price up. But 


/ 


| looking at the old man as he stood quiet, with 


his head bowed and his eyes cast down, he felt 
that to relinquish an inch of his baldness, an inch 
of his gray hair, an inch of his coat-skirt, an inch 
of his hat-brim, an inch of his walking-staff, 
would be to relinquish hundreds of pounds. 

‘* Look here, Riah,” said Fledgeby, mollified 
by these self-approving considerations. ‘‘I want 
to go a little more into buying up queer bills. 
Look out in that direction.” 

*¢Sir, it shall be done.” 

‘“‘Casting my eye over the accounts, I find 
that branch of business pays pretty fairly, and I 
am game for extending it.” I like to know peo- 
ple’s affairs likewise. So look out.” 

‘*Sir, I will, promptly.” 

** Put it about in the right quarters, that you’ll 
buy queer bills by the lamp—by the pound weight 
if that’s all—supposing you sce your way to a 
fair chance on lookfhg over the parcel. And 
there’s one thing more. Come to me with the . 
books for periodical inspection as usual, at eight 
on Monday morning.” 

Riah drew some folding tablets from his breast 
and noted it down. 

*“That’s all I wanted to say at the present 
time,” continued Fledgeby in a grudging vein, 
as he got off the stool, ‘except that I wish you’d 
take the air where you can hear the bell, or the 
knocker, either one of the two or both. By-the- 
by, how do you take the air at the top of the 
house? Do you stick your head out of a chim- 
ney-pot ?”’ 

‘* Sir, there are leads there, and I have made 
a little garden there.” 

‘*To bury your money in, you old dodger ?” 

‘* A thumb-nail’s space of garden would hold 
the treasure J bury, master,” said Riah. ‘*'T'welve 
shillings a week, even when they are an old 
man’s wages, bury themselves,” 

‘*T should like to know what you really are 
worth,” returned Fledgeby, with whom his 
growing rich on that stipend and gratitude was 
a very convenient fiction. ‘But come! Let’s, 
have a look at your garden on the tiles before I 
go 1” : 
The old man took a step back, and hesitated. 
‘“Truly, Sir, I have company there.” 
‘* Have you, by George!” said Fledgeby; «I 
suppose you happen to know whose premises 
these are ?” 


; | 
they say, ‘Can it never 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 129 


= 


\ fi i ‘ 
ce 


“i WWE 


AS 


jizz S 


a=W 


RIAH’S GUESTS. 


‘¢Sir, they are vours, and I'am your servant | bled by any such weak imagining, Fascination 
in them.” Fledgeby merely speculated on the time of life 
“Oh! I thought you might have overlooked | at which his beard had begun, and thought once 
that,” retorted Fledgeby, with his eyes on Riah’s | more what a good ’un he was for the part. 
beard as he felt for his own; ‘‘having company Some final wooden steps conducted them, 
on my premises, vou know!” | stooping under a low pent-house roof, to the 
, ‘*Come up and see the guests, Sir, I hope house-top. Riah stood still, and, turning to his 
for your admission that they can do no harm.” | master, pointed out his guests. 
Passing him with a courteous reverence, spe- |y Lizzie Hexam and Jenny Wren. For whom, 
cially unlike any action thatMr. Fledgeby could ‘perhaps with some old instinct _of his race, the 
ne his life have imparted to his own head and gentle Jew had spréad_a carpet. Seated on it, 
hands, the old man began to ascend the stairs. ‘against no more romantic object than a black- 
As he toiled on before, with his palm upon the ened chimney-stack over which some humble 
_Stair-rail, and his long black skirt, a very gaber- | creeper had been trained, they both pored over 
dine, overhanging each successive step, he might one book; both with attentive faces; Jenny with 
have been the leader in some pilgrimage of de- the sharper; Lizzie with the more perplexed. 
yotional ascent to a prophet’s tomb. Not trou- Another little book or two were lying near, and 


Namen neers ee aan w Arai nga 


130 


a common basket of common fruit, and another 


basket full of strings of beads and tinsel scraps. 
A few boxes of humble flowers 


derness of dowager old chimneys twirled their 


cowls and fluttered their smoke, rather as if. 


they were bridling, and fanning themselves, and 
looking on in a state of airy surprise. 

Taking her eyes off the book, to test her mem- 
ory of something in it, Lizzie was the first to see 
herself observed. As she rose, Miss Wren like- 
wise became conscious, and said, irreverently 
addressing the great chief of the premises: 
‘* Whoever you are, J can’t get up, because my 
back’s bad and my legs are queer.” 

‘“This is my master,” said Riah, stepping for- 
ward. 

(‘Don’t look like any body’s master,” ob- 
served Miss Wren to herself, with a hitch of her 
chin and eyes.) 

‘¢This, Sir,” pursued the old man, ‘‘is a little 
dress-maker for little people. Explain to the 
master, Jenny.” 

*¢Dolls,- that’s all,” said) Jenny, shortly. 
“*Very difficult to fit too, because their figures 
are so uncertain. You never know where to 
expect their waists.” 

‘¢ Her friend,” resumed the old man, motion- 
ing toward Lizzie; ‘‘and as industrious as vir- 
tuous. But that they both are. ‘They are busy 
early and late, Sir, early and late; and in by- 
times, as on this holiday, they go to book learn- 
“Ing.” 

‘‘Not much good to be got out of that,” re- 
marked Fledgeby. 

*¢ Depends upon the person!’’ quoth Miss 
Wren, snapping him up. 

“*T made acquaintance with my guests, Sir,” 
pursued the Jew, with an evident purpose of 
drawing out the dress-maker, ‘‘through their 
coming here to buy of our damage and waste 
for Miss Jenny’s millinery. Our waste goes into 
the best of company, Sir, on her rosy-cheeked 
little customers. They wear it in their hair, and 
on their ball-dresses, and even (so she tells me) 
are presented at Court with it.” 

‘*Ah!”’ said Fledgeby, on whose intelligence 
‘~this doll-fancy made rather strong demands; 
‘*she’s been buying that basketful to-day, I sup- 
pose ?”’ 

‘*¢*T suppose she has,”” Miss Jenny interposed ; 
‘Cand paying for it too, most likely !” 

“* Let’s have a look at it,’’ said the suspicious 
chief. Riah handed it to him. ‘* How much 
for this now?” 

“Two precious silver shillings,’ > said Miss 
Wren. 

Riah confirmed her with two nods, as Fledge- 
by looked to him. A nod for each shilling, 

‘“Well,” said Fledgeby, poking into the con- 
tents of the basket with his forefinger, ‘‘the 
price is not so bad. You have got good meas- 
ure, Miss What-is-it.” 

‘“Try Jenny,” suggested that young lady with 
great calmness. 

‘“‘You have got good measure, Miss Jenny; 
bnt the price is not so vad,—And you,” said 
Fledgeby, turning to the other visitor, ‘do you 
buy any thing here, miss?” 

+¢'No,) Sir.” 

“Nor sell any thing neither, miss ?” 

“No, 'Sie” ‘wy 


OUR MUTUAL FRIE 


and evergreens 
completed the garden; and the encompassing wil- 


UND. 


Looking askew at the questioner, Jenny stole 
her hand up to her friend’s, and drew ‘her fr iend. 
down, so that: she bent beside her on her knee, 

“We are thankful to come here for rest, Oats, 
said Jenny. ‘‘You see, you don’t know what 
the rest of this place is.to us; does he, Lizzie? 
It’s the quiet, and the air.” 

“The quiet!” repeated Fledgeby, with a con- 
temptuous turn of his head toward the City’s roar, 
‘And the air!” with a ‘‘ Poof!” at the smoke. 
> “Ah!” said Jenny. ‘But it’s so high. 
you see the clouds rushing on above the narrotv 
streets, not minding them, and you see the gold- 
en arrows pointing at the mountains in the sky 


| from which the wind comes, and you feel as if 


you were dead.” 

The little creature looked above her, holding 
up her slight transparent hand. 

‘* How do you feel when you are dead ?” ask- 
ed Fledgeby, much perplexed. 

‘*Oh, so tranquil!” cried the little creature, 
smiling. ‘*Oh, so peaceful and so thankful! 
And you hear the people who are alive, crying, 
and working, and calling to one another down 
in the close dark streets, and you seem to pity 
them so! And such a chain has fallen from 
you, and such a strange good sorrowful hap pi 
ness comes upon you! yr 

Her eyes fell on. the old man, who, with his 
hands folded, quietly looked on. 


‘Why it was only just now,” said the litle 


creature, pointing at him, *‘that-I fancied I saw © 


him come out of his grave! He toiled out at 
that low door, so bent and worn, and then he 
took his breath and stood upright, and locked 
all round him at the sky, and the wind blew 
upon him, and his life down in the dark was 
over Till he was called back to life,” she add- 
ed, looking round at Fledgeby with that lower 
look of sharpness. ‘‘ Why did you call him 
back ?” 

‘‘He was Jong enough coming, any how,” 
grumbled Fledgeby. 

“But you are not dead, you know,” said Jen- 
ny Wre1.. ‘‘ Get down to life!” 


Mr. Fledgeby seemed to think it rather a good — 


suggestion, and with a nod turned round. As 
Riah followed to attend him down the stairs, 
the little creature called out. to the Jew in a sil- 
very tone, ‘‘ Don’t be long gone. Come back 
and be dead!” And still as they went down 
they heard the little sweet voice, more and more 


faintly, half calling and half singing, ‘‘Come * 


back and be dead, Come back and be dead !” 
When they got down into the entry, Fledge- 
by, pausing under the shadow of the broad old 
hat, and mechanically poising the staff, said to 
the old man: . 
“That's a handsome girl, that one in her 
senses.’ 
‘¢ And as good as handsome,” answer =%5 Riah. 


‘* At all events,” observed "Fledgeby, with a_ 


dry whistle, ‘‘ I hope she ain’t bad enough to put 
any chap up to the fastenings, and get the prem- 
ises broken open. You look out. Keep your 
weather eye awake, and don’t make any more 
acquaintances, however handsome. Of course 
you always keep my name to yourself?” 

‘* Sir, assuredly bdo...” 

“Tf they ask it, say it’s Pubsey, or say it's 
Co, or say it’s any thing you ‘Tike, but. what it, 


is.” 
Nay 


And | 


aad. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


3 


13L 


His grateful servant—in whose race gratitude | burn could always awaken in him without seem- 


is deep, strong, and enduring—bowed his head, 
and actually did now put the hem of his‘coat to 
his lips: though so lightly that the wearer knew 


’ nothing of it. 


“man went his different way up stairs. 


Thus, Fascination Fledgeby went his way, ex- 
ulting in the artful cleverness with which he had 
turned his thumb down on a Jew, and the old 
As he 
mounted, the call or song began to sound in his 
ears again, and, looking above, he saw the face 
of the little creature looking down out of a Glo- 
ry of her long bright radiant hair, and musical- 
ly repeating to him, like a vision: 

““Come up and be dead! Come up and be 


dead !”’ 


CHAPTER VI. 
A RIDDLE WITHOUT AN ANSWER. 


Acatin Mr. Mortimer Lightwood and Mr. 
Eugene Wrayburn sat together in the Temple. 
This evening, however, they were not together 
in the place of business of the eminent solicitor, 


‘but in another dismal set of chambers facing it 


‘stretched out his legs on the hearth-rug, and 


on the same second-floor; on whose dungeon- 
like black outer door appeared the legend: 


PRIVATE. 
Mr. Evaene WRAYBURN. 
Mr. Mortimer Ligutwoop. 
(K#F° Mr, Lightwood’s Offices opposite.) 


Appearances indicated that this establishment 
was a very recent institution. The white letters 
of the inscription were extremely white, and ex- 
tremely strong to the sense of smell, the com- 
plexion of the tables and chairs was (like Lady 
Tippins’s) a little too blooming to be believed 
in, and the carpets and floor-cloth seemed to 
rush at the beholder’s face in the unusual prom- 
inency of their patterns. But the Temple, ac- 
customed to tone down both the still life and 
the human life that has much to do with it, 
would soon get the better of all that. 

“Well!” said Eugene, on one side of the fire, 
*¢T feel tolerably comfortable. I hope the up- 
holsterer may do the same.” 

“¢ Why shouldn’t he ?” asked Lightwood, from 
the other side of the fire. 

“To be sure,” pursued Eugene, reflecting, 
‘‘he is not in the secret of our pecuniary af- 
fairs, so perhaps he may be in an easy frame of 
mind.” 

‘©We shall pay him,” said Mortimer. 

‘Shall. we, really ?” returned Eugene, indo- 
lently. surprised. ‘* You don’t say so!” 

‘‘T mean to pay him, Eugene, for my part,’ 
said Mortimer, in a slightly injured tone. 

*¢ Ah! I mean to pay him too,” retorted Eu- 
gene. ‘* But then I mean so much that [—that 
I don’t mean.’’ 

** Don’t mean ?” 

*So much that I only mean and shall always 
only mean and nothing more, my dear Morti- 
mer. It’s the same thing.” 

‘His friend, lying back in his easy - chair, 
watched him lying back in his easy-chair, as he 


said, with the amused look that Eugene Wray- 


ing to try or care; 

‘* Any how, your vagaries have increased the 
bill.” 

‘*Calls the domestic virtues vagaries ! Y”? ex- 
claimed Eugene, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 

“This very complete little kitchen of ours, 
said Mor timer, ‘*in which nothing will ever be 
cooked—” 

‘My dear, dear. Mortimer,’ returned his 
friend, lazily lifting his head a little to look at 
him, ‘‘ how often have I pointed out to you that 
its moral influence is the important thing ?” 

“Its moral influence on this fellow,” 
claimed Lightwood, laughing. 

‘*Do me the favor,” said Eugene, getting 
out of his chair with much gravity, ‘‘ to come 
and-inspect that feature-of our establishment 
which you rashly disparage.” With that, tak- 
ing up a candle, he conducted his chum into 
the fourth room of the set of chambers—a little 
narrow room—which was very completely and 
neatly fitted as a kitchen. ‘*See!” said Ku- 
gene, ‘‘ miniature flour-barrel, rolling-pin, spice- 
box, shelf of brown jars, chopping-board, coffee- 
mill, dresser elegantly furnished with crockery, 
sauce-pans and pans, roasting jack, a charming 
kettle, an armory of dish-covers. The moral in- 
fluence of these objects, in forming the domestic 
virtues, may have an immense influence upon 
me; not upon you, for you are a hopeless case, 
but upon me. In fact, I have an idea that I feel 
the domestic virtues already forming. Do me 
the favor to step into my bedroom. Secrétaire, 


>) 


e€x- 


| you see, and abstruse set of solid mahogany pig- 


eon-holes, one for every letter of the alphabet. 
To what use do I devote them? I receive a bill 
—say from Jones. I docket it neatly at the 
secrétaire, Jones, and I put it into pigeon-hole 
J. It’s the next thing to a receipt, and is quite 
as satisfactory to me. And I very much wish, 
Mortimer,” sitting on his bed, with the air of a 
philosopher lecturing a disciple, “‘that my ex- 
ample might induce you to cultivate habits of 
punctuality and method; and, by means of the 
moral influences with which I have surrounded 
you, to repens’ the formation of the domestic 
virtues.” 

Mortimer layghed again, with his usual com- 
mentaries of ** How can you be so ridiculous, 
Eugene!” and ‘‘What an absurd fellow you 
are!’ but when his laugh was out, there was 
something serious, if not anxious, in his face. 
Despite that pernicious assumption of lassitude 
and indifference, which had become his second 
nature, he was strongly attached to his friend. 
He had founded himself npon Engene when they 
were yet boys at school; and at this hour imi- 
tated him no less, admired him no less, loved 
him no less, than in those departed days. 

‘¢ Kugene,”’ said he, ‘‘if I could find you in 
earnest for a minute, I would try to say an earn- 
est word to you.’ 

‘¢ An earnest word ?” retealed Eugene. ‘‘The 
moral influences are beginning to work. Say on.” 

*¢ Well, I will,” returned the other, ‘‘ though 
you are not earnest yet.” 

‘‘In this desire for earnestness,” murmured 
Eugene, with the air of one who was meditating 
deeply, ‘‘I trace the happy inflnences of the lit- 
tle flour-barrel and the coffee-mill. Gratifying.” 

‘‘Rugene,” resumed Mortimer, disregarding 


132 


the light interruption, and laying a hand upon 
Eugene’s shoulder, as he, Mortimer, stood be- 
fore him seated on his bed, ‘‘ you are withhold- 
ing something from me.” 

Eugene looked at him, but said nothing. 

** All this past summer you have been with- 
holding something from me. Before we entered 
on our boating vacation, you were as bent upon 
it as I have seen you upon any thing since we 
first rowed together. But you cared very little 
for it when it came, often found it a tie and a 
drag upon you, and were constantly away. Now 
it was well enough half a dozen times, a dozen 
times, twenty times, to say to me in your own 
odd manner, which I know so well and like so 
much, that your disappearances were precau- 
tions against our boring one another; but of 
course after a short while I began to know that 
they covered something. I don’t ask what it is, 
as you have not told me; but the fact is so. 
Say, is it not?” 

**T give you my word of honor, Mortimer,” 
returned Eugene, after a serious pause of a few 
moments, ‘‘that I don’t know.” . 

** Don’t know, Eugene ?” 

‘Upon my soul, don’t know. I know less 
about myself than about most people in the 
world, and I don’t know.” 

**You have some design in your mind ?” 

‘‘Have 1? I don’t think I have.” 

** At any rate, you have some subject of in- 
terest there which used not to be there ?” 

‘J really can’t say,” replied Eugene, shaking 
his head blankly, after pausing again to recon- 
sider. ‘‘ At times I have thought yes; at other 
times I have thought no. Now I have been in- 
clined to pursue such a subject; now I have felt 
that it was absurd, and that it tired and embar- 
rassed me. Absolutely, I can’t say. Frankly 
and faithfully, I would if I could.” 

So replying, he clapped a hand, in his turn, 
on his friend’s shoulder, as he rose from his seat 
upon the bed, and said: 

‘*You must take your friend as he is. You 
know what I am, my dear Mortimer. You know 
how dreadfully susceptible I am to boredom, 
You know that when I became enough of a man 
to find myself an embodied conundrum, I bored 
myself to the last degree by trying to find out 
what I meant. You know that at length I gave 
it up, and declined to guess any more. Then 
how can I possibly give you the answer that I 
have not discovered? The old nursery form 
runs, ‘ Riddle-me-riddle-me-ree, p’raps you can’t 
tell me what this may be?’ My reply runs, ‘No. 
Upon my life, I ean’t.’” 

So much of what was fantastically true to his 
own knowledge of this utterly careless Eugene, 
mingled with the answer, that Mortimer could 
not receive it as a mere evasion. Besides, it 
was given with an engaging air of openness, 
and of special exemption of the one friend he 
valued, from his reckless indifference. 

“*Come, dear boy!” said Eugene. 
try the effect of smoking. 
at all on this question, I will impart unreserv- 
edly.” 

They returned to the room they had come 
from, and, finding it heated, opened a window. 
Having lighted their cigars, they leaned out of 
this window, smoking, and looking down at the 
moonlight as it shone into the court below. 


“ Let us 


If it enlightens me. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘*No enlightenment,” resumed Eugene, after 
certain minutes of silence. ‘I feel sincerely 
apologetic, my dear Mortimer, but nothing 
comes,” wae 

-“ Tf nothing comes,” returned Mortimer, ‘‘ no- 
thing can come from it. So I shall hope that 
this may hold good throughout, and that there 
may be nothing on foot. Nothing injurious to 
you, Kugene, or—” 


Eugene stayed him for a moment with his 


hand on his arm, while he took a piece of earth 
from an old flower-pot on the window-sill and 
dextrously shot it at a little point of light oppo- 
site; having done which to his satisfaction, hé 
said, ‘‘ Or?” 
‘*Or injurious to any one else.” 
“How,” said Eugene, taking another little 


piece of earth, and shooting it with great pre- .— 


cision at the former mark, ‘‘ how injurious to 
any one else?” 

**T don’t know.” 

“* And,” said Eugene, taking, as he said the 
word, another shot, ‘‘ to whom else ?” 

**T don’t know.” 

Checking himself with another piece of earth 
in his hand, Eugene looked at his friend inquir- 
ingly and a little suspiciously. There was no 
concealed or half-expressed meaning in his face. 

‘*'T'wo belated wanderers in the mazes of the 
law,” said Eugene, attracted by the sound of 
footsteps, and glancing down as he spoke, ‘stray 
into the court. ‘They examine the door-posts 
of number one, seeking the name they want. 


Not finding it at number one, they come to 


number two. On the hat of wanderer number 
two, the shorter one, I drop this pellet. . Hit- 
ting him on the hat, I smoke serenely, and be- 
come absorbed in contemplation of the sky.” 

Both the wanderers looked up toward the 
window; but after interchanging a mutter or 
two, soon applied themselves to the door-posts 
below. There they seemed to discover what 
they wanted, for they disappeared from view by 
entering at the doorway. ‘ When they emerge,” 
said Eugene, ‘‘ you shall see me bring them both 
down ;” and so prepared two pellets for the pur- 
pose. 

He had not reckoned on their seeking his 
name, or Lightwood’s. But either the one or 


the other would seem to be in question, for now ° 
‘Tam on. 
duty to-night,” said Mortimer ; ‘‘ stay you where ~ 


there came a knock at the door. 


you are, Eugene.” Requiring no persuasion, 
he staid there, smoking quietly, and not at all 
curious to know who knocked, until Mortimer 


spoke to him from within the room, and touch- — 


ed him. Then, drawing in his head, he found 
the visitors to be young Charley Hexam.and 
the schoolmaster; both standing facing him, 
and both recognized at a glance, 

‘You recollect this young fellow, Eugene?” 
said Mortimer. 

‘‘ Let me look at him,” returned Wrayburn, 
coolly. ‘Oh yes, yes. I recollect him!” 


He had not been about to repeat that former — 


action of taking him by the chin, but the boy 


had suspected him of it, and had thrown up his — 
Laughingly, Wray- | 


burn looked to Lightwood for an explanation : 


arm with an angry start. 


of this odd visit. 
‘‘ He says he has something to say.”” 
“* Surely it must be to you, Mortimer.” 


4 
7 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. . 


**So I thought, but he says no. 
to you.” 

“Yes, I do say so,” interposed the boy. 
‘* And I mean to say what I want to say, too, 
Mr. Eugene Wrayburn!” 

Passing him with his eyes as if there were no- 
thing where he stood, Eugene looked on to Brad- 
ley Headstone. With consummate indolence 
he turned to Mortimer, inquiring: ‘‘ And who 
may this other person be?” a 

**T am Charles Hexam’s friend,” said Brad- 
ley; ‘1 am Charles Hexam’s schoolmaster.” 

‘*My good Sir, you should teach your pupils 
better manners,” returned Eugene. 

Composedly smoking, he leaned an elbow on 
the chimney-piece, at the side of the fire, and 
looked at the schoolmaster. It was a cruel 
look, in its cold disdain of him, as a creature of 
no worth. The schoolmaster looked at him, 
and that, too, was a cruel look, though of the 
different kind, that it had a raging jealousy and 
fiery wrath in it. ‘ 

Very remarkably, neither Eugene Wrayburn 
nor Bradley Headstone looked at all at the boy. 
Through the ensuing dialogue those two, no 
matter who spoke, or whom was addressed, 
looked at each other. There was some secret, 
sure perception between them, which set them 
against one another in all ways. 

**In some high respects, Mr. Eugene Wray- 
‘burn,” said Bradley, answering him with pale 
and quivering lips, ‘‘the natural feelings of my 
pupils are stronger than my teaching.” 

‘‘{n most respects, I dare say,” replied Eu- 
gene, enjoying his cigar, ‘‘ though whether high 
or low is of noimportance. You have my name 
very correctly. Pray what is yours ?” 

‘‘Tt can not concern you much to know, but—”’ 

**'True,” interposed Eugene, striking sharply, 
and cutting him short at his mistake, ‘it does 
not concern meatalltoknow. I can say School- 
master, which is a most respectable title. You 
are right, Schoolmaster,’’ 

It was not the dullest part of this goad in its 
galling of Bradley Headstone, that he had made 
it himself in a moment of incautious anger. He 
tried to set his lips so as to prevent their quiv- 
ering, but they quivered fast. 

‘*Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” said the boy, ‘I 
Want a word with you. I have wanted it so 
much that we have looked out your address in 
the book, and we have been to your office, and 
we have come from your office here,” 

“You have given yourself much trouble, 
_Schoolmaster,” observed Eugene, blowing the 
feathery ash from his cigar. ‘I hope it may 
prove remunerative.” 

‘* And I am glad to speak,” pursued the boy, 
**in presence of Mr. Lightwood, because it was 
through Mr. Lightwood that you ever saw my 
sister.” 

For a mere moment Wrayburn turned his 
_ eyes aside from the schoolmaster to note the ef- 
fect of the last word on Mortimer, who, stand- 
ing on the opposite side of the fire, as soon as the 
word was spoken turned his face toward the fire 
-and looked down into it. 

“Similarly, it was through Mr. Lightwood 
that you ever saw her again, for you were with 
him on the night when my father was found, 
and so I found you with her on the next day. 
_ Since then you have seen my sister often. You 


He says it is 


138 
And [ 


‘have seen my sister of:ener and oftener. 
want to know why ?” 

** Was this worth while, Schoolmaster ?”” mur- 
mured Kugene, with the air of a disinterested 
adviser. ‘*So much trouble for nothing? You 
should know best, but I think not.” 

‘“T don’t know, Mr. Wrayburn,” answered 
Bradley, with his passion rising, ‘‘why you ad- 
dress me—” 

*¢ Don’t you?” said Eugene. ‘*ThenI won't.” 

He said it so tauntingly in his perfect placid- 
ity, that the respectable right-hand clutching the 
respectable hair-guard of the respectable watch 
could have wound it round his throat and stran- 
gled him with it. Not another word did Eu- 
gene deem it worth while to utter, but stood 
leaning his head upon his hand, smoking, and 
looking imperturbably at the chafing Bradley 
Headstone with his clutching right hand, until 
Bradley was well-nigh mad. 

‘*Mr. Wrayburn,” proceeded the boy, ‘‘ we 
not only know this that I have charged upon 
you, but we know more. It has not yet come 
to my sister’s knowledge that we have found it 
out, but we have. We had a plan, Mr. Head- 
stone and I, for my sister’s education, and for 
its being advised and overlooked by Mr. Head- 
stone, who is a much more competent author- 
ity, whatever you may pretend to think, as you 
smoke, than you could produce, if you tried. 
Then, what dowe find? What do we find, Mr. 
Lightwood? Why, we find that my sister is al- 
ready being taught without our knowing it. 
We find that while my sister gives an unwilling 
and cold ear to our schemes for her advantage 
—I, her brother, and Mr. Headstone, the most 
competent authority, as his certificates would 
easily prove, that could be produced—she is 
willfully and willingly profiting by other schemes. 
Ay, and taking pains too, for I know what such 
pains are. And so does Mr. Headstone! Well! 
Somebody pays for this, is a thought that natu- 
rally occurs to us; who pays? We apply our- 
selves to find out, Mr. Lightwood, and we find 
that your friend, this Mr. Eugene Wrayburn 
here, pays. Then I ask him what right has he 
to do it, and what does he mean by it, and how 
comes he to be taking such a liberty without my 
consent, when I am raising myself in the scale 
of society by my own exertions and Mr. Head- 
stone’s aid, and have no right to have any dark- 
ness Cast upon my prospects, or any imputation 
upon my respectability through my sister ?” 

The boyish weakness of this speech, combined 
with its great selfishness, made it a poor one in- 
deed. And yet Bradley Headstone, used to the 
little audience of a school, and unused to the 
larger ways of men, showed a kind of exultation 
in it. 

‘*Now I tell Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” pursued 
the boy, forced into the use of the third person 
by the hopelessness of addressing him in the first, 
‘*that I object to his having any acquaintance 
at all with my sister, and that I request him to 
drop it altogether. He is not to take it into his 
head that I am afraid of my sister’s caring for 
him—” 

(As the boy sneered, the Master sneered, and 
Eugene blew off the feathery ash again.) 

—‘*But I object to it, and that’s enough. I 
am more important to my sister than-he»thinks, 
As I raise myself, I intend to raisc her; she 


4 


Ick 


= 


i} 


ue 


: t i “¢ 
} il iil 
NAR Hi 
i 
i 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ee : 


knows that, and she has to look to me for her 
prospects. Now [ understand all this very well, 
and so does Mr, Headstone. My sister is an 
excellent girl, but she has some romantic no- 
tions; not about such things as your Mr. Eugene 
Wrayburns, but about the death of my father 
and other matters of that sort, Mr. Wrayburn 
encourages those notions to make himself of im- 
portance, and so she thinks she ought to be grate- 
ful to him, and perhaps even likes to be. Now 
1 don’t choose her to be grateful to him, or to be 
grateful to any body but ine, except. Mr. Head- 
stone, And I tell Mr. Wrayburn thai if he 


9" 


es 
SS 


FORMING THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES. 


yr 


as 


ahs 
ay 


ae 


Nt 
aR ge Ny 


) mah tod 

Be 

eT Has Wie 
Yawn 


don’t take heed of what I say, it will be worse 
for her. Let him turn that over in his mem- 
ory, and make sure of it. Worse for her!” 

A pause ensued, in which the schoolmaster 
looked very awkward, 

“May I snggest, Schoolmaster,” said Eugene, 
removing his fast-waning cigar from his lips to 


glance at it, ‘that you can now take your pupil 
rc 9 a ‘ 
away. 


‘*And Mr. Lightwood,”’ added the boy, with» 


a burning face, under the flaming aggravation — 
of getting no sort-of answer or attention, ‘I- 
hope you'll take notice of what I have said to. 

a 


he 
’ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


your friend, and of what your friend has heard 
me say, word by word, whatever he pretends to 
the contrary, You are bound to take notice of 
it, Mr. Lightwood, for, as I have already men- 
tioned, you first brought your friend into my 
sister’s Company, and but for you we never 
should have seen him. ~ Lord knows none of us 
ever wanted him, any more than any of us will 
ever miss him. Now, Mr, Headstone, as Mr. 
Eugene Wravburn has been obliged to hear what 
I had to say, and couldn’t help himself, and as 
I have said it out to the last word, we have done 
all we wanted to do, and may go.” 

“Go down stairs, and leave me a moment, 
Hexam,” he returned. The boy complying with 


an indignant look and as much noise as he could ° 


make, swung out of the room, and Lightwood 


went to the window, and leaned there, looking | 


out. : 
**You think me of no more value than the 
‘dirt under your feet,” said Bradley to Eugene, 
‘speaking in a carefully weighed and measured 
‘tone, or he could not have spoken at all. 

- “T assure you, Schoolmaster,” replied Eu- 
gene, “I don’t think about you.” 


‘«That’s not true,” returned the other; ‘you | 


know better.” 


**That’s coarse,” Eugene retorted; ‘‘but you | 


don’t know better.” 

“Mr, Wrayburn, at least I know very well that 
it would be'idle to set myself against you in in- 
solent words or overbearing manners. That lad 
who has just gone out could put you to shame 
in half a dozen branches of knowledge in half 
an hour, but you can throw him aside like an in- 
ferior. You can do as much by me, I have no 
doubt, beforehand.” 

‘* Possilily,”’ remarked Engene. 

‘But I am more than a lad,” said Bradley, 
with his clutching hand, “‘ and I wixu be heard, 
Sir.” 

‘* As a schoolmaster,” said Eugene, ‘‘ you are 
always being heard. That ought to content 
you.” | 

‘* But it does not content me,” replied the oth- 
er, white with passion. ‘‘Do you suppose that 


aman, in forming himself for the duties I dis- | 


charge, and in watching and repressing himself 
daily to discharge them well, dismisses a man’s 
nature ?” 

“*T suppose you,” said Eugene, ‘‘ judging from 


135 


, with an errant motion of his hands as if he could 
have torn himself. 

Eugene Wrayburn looked on at him, as if he 
found him beginning to be rather an entertain- 
ing study. 

‘“Mr. Wrayburn, I desire to say something 
to you on my own part.” 

**Come, come, Schoolmaster,” returned Eu- 

gene, with a languid approach to impatience as 
the other again struggled with himself; ‘* say 
what you have to say. And let me remind you 
that the door is standing open, and your young 
friend waiting for you on the stairs.” 
“When [ accompanied that youth here, Sir, 
'I did so with the purpose of adding, as a man 
whom you should not be permitied to put aside, 
in case you put him aside as a boy, that his in- 
stinct is correct and right.’ Thus Bradley 
| Headstone, with great «ffort and difficulty. 

‘Ts that all?” asked Kugene, 

**No, Sir,” said,the other, flushed and fierce. 
‘“€T-strongly support him in his disapproval of 
your visits to his sister, aud in bis objection to 
your officionsness—and worse—in what you 
| have taken upon yoursclf to do for her.” 

**Is that all?” asked Eugene. 

“No, Sir. I determined to tell you that you 
are not justified in these proceedings, and that 
they are injurious to his sister.” 

‘*Are you her schoolmaster“#s well as “her 
brother's ?—Or perhaps you would like to be ?” 
said Kugene. 

It was a stab that the blood followed, in its 
rush to Bradley Headstone’s face, as swiftly as 
if it had been dealt with a dagger. ‘What do 

you mean by that?” was as much as he could 
Putter: ye 

‘* A natural ambition enough,” said Engene, 
‘coolly. ‘+ Far be it from me to say otherwise. 
|The si: ter—who is'‘something too much upon 
your lips, perhaps—is so very different from all 
the associations to which she has been used, and 
from all the low obscure people about her, that 
| it is a very natural ambition.” 

‘¢Po you throw my obscurity in my tecth, 
Mr. Wrayburn ?” ; 

‘¢That can hardly be, for I know nothing con- 
cerning it, Schoalmaster, and seek to know no- 
thing.” ™ 
| **You reproach me with my origin,” said 
Bradley Headstone; ‘you cast insinuations at 


what I sce as I look at vou, to be rather too pas-w my bringing-up: But Ttell you, Sir, I have 
sionate for a good schoolmaster.” As he spokey worked my way onward, out of both and in 


he tossed away the end of his cigar. 
‘Passionate with you, Sir, I admit I am. 


spite of both, and have a right to be considered 
a better man than you, with better reasons for 


Passionate with you, Sir, I respect myself for being proud.” 


being. But I have not Devils for my pupils.” 
“For your Teachers, I should rather say,” 
replied Eugene. 
“*Mr. Wrayburn.” 
**Schoolmaster.” 
**Sir, my name is Bradley Headstone.” 
“* As you justly said, my good Sir, your name 
can not concern me. Now, what more ?”’ 
“*This more. 
mine,” cried Bradley, breaking off to wipe the 
Starting perspiration from his face as he shook 
from head to foot, ‘that I can not so control 
myself as to appear a stronger creature than this, 
When a man who has not felt in all his life what 
J have felt in a day can so command himself !” 


‘He said it in a very agony, and even followed it 
MA 2 § J 


Oh, what a misfortune is | 


‘* Wow I can reproach you with what is not 
within my knowledge, or how I can cast stones 
that were never in my hand, is a problem for the 
| ingennity of a schoolmaster to prove,” returned 
Eugene. ‘Is that all ?”’ 

‘*No, Sir. If you suppose that boy—” 

‘Who really will be tired of waiting,” 
Eugene, politely. hie, 

‘Tf you suppose that boy to be friendless, Mr. 
Wrayburn, you deceive yourself. I am_ his 
friend, and you shall find me so.” 

‘And you will find Aim on the stairs, 
marked Eugene. 

‘You may have promised yourself, Sir, that 
you could 
had to deal with a mere boy, inexperienced, 


said 


” 


re- 


do what you chose here, because you. 


% 


° 


136 


friendless, and unassisted. But I give you warn- 
ing that this mean calculation is wrong. You 
have to do with a man also. -- You have to do 
with me. I will support him, and, if need be, 
require reparation for him. My hand and heart 
are in this cause, and are open to him.” 

‘*And— quite a coincidence —the door is 
open,” remarked Eugene, 

“‘T scorn your shifty evasions, and I scorn 
you,” said the schoolmaster. ‘In the mean- 
ness of your nature you revile me with the 
meanness of my birth. I hold you in contempt 
for it. But if you don’t profit by this visit, and 
act accordingly, you will find me as bitterly in 
earnest against you as I could be if I deemed 
you worth a second thought on my own ac- 
count.” 

With a consciously bad grace and stiff man- 
ner, as Wrayburn looked so easily and calmly 
on, he went out with these words, and the heavy 
door closed like a furnace-door upon his red and 
white heats of rage. 

‘A curious monomaniac,” said Eugene. 
*‘The man seems to believe that every body 
was acquainted with his mother !” 

Mortimer Lightwood being still at the win- 
dow, to which he had in delicacy withdrawn, 
Eugene called to him, and he fell to slowly pac- 
ing the room. 

‘* My dear fellow,” said Eugene, as he lighted 
another cigar, ‘‘I fear my unexpected visitors 
have been troublesome. If as a set-off (excuse 
the legal phrase from a barrister-at-law) you 
would like to ask Tippins to tea, I_pledge my- 
self to make love to her.” 

“Eugene, Eugene, Eugene,” replied Morti- 
mer, still pacing the room, ‘‘I am sorry for this. 
And to think that I have been so blind!” 

‘**How blind, dear boy?” inquired his un- 
moved friend. 

‘What were your words that night at the 
river-side public house?” said Lightwood, stop- 
ping. ‘What was it that you asked me? Did 
J feel like a dark combination of traitor and 
pickpocket when I thought of that girl ?” 

**I seem to remember the expression,” said 
Eugene. 

‘* How do you feel when you think of her just 
now ?” 

His friend made no direct reply, but observed, 
after a few whiffs of his cigar, ‘* Don’t mistake 
the situation. ‘There is no better girl in all this 
London than Lizzie Hexam. There is no bet- 
ter among my people at home; no better among 
your people.” | 

‘“¢Granted. What follows?” 

“There,” said Eugene, looking after him du- 
biously as he paced away to the other end of the 
room, ‘‘you put me again upon guessing the 
riddle that I have given up.” 

‘“‘ Hugene, do you design to capture and de- 
sert this girl?” 

*¢ My dear fellow, no.” 

**Do you design to marry her?” - 

*¢ My dear fellow, no.” 

**Do you design to. pursue her ?” 

“ My dear fellow, I don’t design any thing. 
I have no design whatever. I am incapable of 
designs. If I conceived a design I should speed- 
ily abandon it, exhausted by the operation.” 

‘Oh Eugene, Eugene!” 

“My dear Mortimer, not that tone of melan- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


choly reproach, I entreat. What canI do more 
than tell you all I know, and acknowledge my 

ignorance of all I don’t know! How does that. : 

little old song go, which, under pretense of being 

cheerful, is by far the most lugubrious I ever | 

heard in my life ? \ 

‘Away with melancholy, | 

Nor doletul changes ring 1 

On life-and human folly, : 

But merrily, merrily sing 

Fal la!’ 


Don’t let us sing Fal la, my dear Mortimer — 
(which is comparatively unmeaning), but let us 
sing that we give up guessing the riddle alto-* 
gether.” 

‘Are you in communication with this girl, 
Eugene, and is what these people say true?” 

“I concede both admissions to my honorable 
and learned friend.” 

‘*'Then what is to come of it? What are 
doing? Where are you,going ?” 

‘*My dear Mortimer, one would think the 
schoolmaster had left behind him a catechising © 
infection. You are ruffled by the want of an- 
other cigar. Take one of these, I entreat. — 
Light it at mine, which is in perfect order, 
So! Now do me the justice to observe that I~ 
am doing all I can toward self-improvement, 
and that you have a light thrown on those 
household implements which, when you only 
saw them as in a glass darkly, you were hasti- : 
ly—I must say hastily—inclined to depreciate. — 
Sensible of my deficiencies, I have surrounded — 
myself with moral influences expressly meant.to : 
promote the formation of the domestic virtues, 
To those influences, and to the improxing soci- | 
ety of my friend from boyhood, commend me — 
with your best wishes.” | 

‘* Ah, Eugene!” said Lightwood, affectionate- _ 
ly, now standing near him, so that they both 
stood in one little cloud of smoke; ‘‘I would 
that you answered my three questions! What _ 
is to come of it? What are you doing? Where : 


you] 


at 
vi 
a 


are you going ?” 

‘And my dear Mortimer,” returned Eugene, 
lightly fanning away the smoke with his hand 
for the better exposition of his frankness of face 
and manner, ‘‘ believe me, I would answer them 
instantly if I could. But to enable me to do so, 
I must first have found out the troublesome co-— 
nundrum long abandoned. Here itis. Eugene 
Wrayburn.” Tapping his forehead and breast. — 
‘* Riddle-me, riddle-me-rce, perhaps you can’t 
tell me what this may be ?—No, upon my life, I~ 
can’t. I give it up!” t 


Secremappacen aecinctanitae 


CHAPTER VII. 
IN WHICH A FRIENDLY MOVE IS ORIGINATED. 


Tue arrangement between Mr. Boffin and his _ 
literary man, Mr. Silas Wegg, so far altered with — : 
the altered habits of Mr. Boftin’s life, as that 
the Roman Empire usually declined in the morn- 
ing and in the eminently aristocratic family 
mansion, rather than in the evening, as of yore, 
and in Boffin’s Bower. There were occasions, 
however, when Mr. Boffin, seeking a brief ref- 
uge from the blandishments of fashion, would 
present himself at the Bower after dark, to an- _ 


ticipate the next sallying forth of Wegg, and 


me 
_ would there, on the old settle, pursue the down- 


OUR MUTUAL FRI 


ils 
for 


| gi i 137 
uae icky 
“ Thankee,” says Wegz. ‘‘ Now this affair 


_, ward fortunes of those enervated and corrupted | is concluded, I may mention to you in a friendly 


- masters of the world who were by this time on 


their last legs. If Wegg had been worse paid 
for his office, or better qualified to discharge it, 


he would have considered these visits compli- | 


mentary and agreeable; but, holding the posi- 
tion of a handsomely-remunerated humbug, he 
resented them. This was. quite according to 
rule, for the incompetent servant, by whomsoey- 
er employed, is always against his employer. 
Eyen those born governors, noble and right hon- 
orable creatures, who have been the most imbe- 
cile in high places, have uniformly shown them- 
selves the most opposed (sometimes in belying 
distrust, sometimes in vapid insolence) to their 
employer, 
public master and servant, is equally true of the 
private master and servant all the world over. 

When Mr. Silas Wegg did at last obtain free 


~ access to *‘ Our House,”’ as he had been wont to 


_ terless so long, and when he did at last find it in | 
all particulars as different from his mental plans | 


-eall the mansion outside which he had sat shel- 


of it as according to the nature of things it well 
could be, that far-seeing and far-reaching char- 


: . . . 
» acter, by way of asserting himself and making | 


~ out a case for compensation, affected to fall into 


a melancholy strain of musing over the mournful 
past; as if the house and he had had a fall in 


life together. 


*¢ And this, Sir,” Silas would say to his patron, 


sadly nodding his head and musing, ‘‘ was once | 
This, Sir, is the building from | 


Our House! 
which I have so often seen those great creatures, 
Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, and 
Uncle Parker”—whose very names were of his 
own inventing—‘‘ pass and repass! And has it 
come to this, indeed! Ah dear me, dear me!” 
.. So tender were his lamentations, that the 
kindly Mr. Boffin was quite sorry for,him, and 


almost felt mistrustful that in buying the house | 


-he had done him an irreparable injury. 
Two or three diplomatic interviews, the result 
of great subtlety on Mr. Wegg’s part, but assum- 


‘ing the mask of careless yielding to a fortuitous | 


combination of circumstances, impelling him to- 
ward Clerkenwell, had enabled him to complete 


his bargain with Mr. Venus. 


‘< Bring me round to the Bower,” said Silas 
b) >) 


' when the bargain was closed, ‘‘next Saturday 
- evening, and if a sociable glass of old Jamaikey 


warm should meet your views, I am not the man 


-.)to begrudge it.” 


= 


“You are aware of my being poor company, 
Sir,” replied Mr. Venus ; ‘‘ but be it so.” 

It being so, here is Saturday evening come, 
and here is Mr. Venus come, and ringing at the 
Bower-gate. 

Mr. Wegg opens the gate, descries a sort of 
brown paper truncheon under Mr. Venus’s arm, 
and remarks, in a dry tone: ‘*Oh! I thought 

perhaps you might. have come in a cab.” 

“No, Mr. Wegg,” replies Venus. ‘‘ I am not 

_ above a parcel.” 


‘Above a parcel! No!’ says Wegg, with 


some dissatisfaction. But does not openly growl, 


th. flowed.’’ 


‘4 certain sort of parcel might be above you.” 
‘‘Here is your purchase, Mr. Wegg,” says 
_ Venus, politely handing it over, ‘‘and I am glad 
to restore it to the source from whence it— 


9 * 


way that I’ve my doubts whether, if I had con- 


sulted a lawyer, you could have kept this arti- 
'cle back from me. 


I only throw it out as a 
legal point” f 
‘‘Do you think so, Mr. Wegg? I bought you 
in open contract.” 
‘¢You can’t buy human flesh and blood in 
this country, Sir; not alive, you can’t,” says 
Wegg, shaking his head. ‘‘'Then query, bone ?” 
‘* As a legal point?” asks Venus. 
‘¢ As a legal point.” 
‘¢T am not competent to speak upon that, Mr. 


| Wegg,” says Venus, reddening, and growing 
/something louder; ‘‘but upon a point of fact I 
What is in such wise true of the. 
of fact I would have seen you—will you allow 


think myself competent to speak; and as a point 


me to say, further ?” 

“‘T wouldn’t say more than further, if I was 
you,” Mr. Wegg suggests, pacifically. 

—‘* Before I'd have given that packet into 
your hand without being paid my price for it. I 
don’t pretend to know how the point of law may 
stand, but I’m thoroughly confident upon the 
point of fact.” 

As Mr. Venus is irritable (no.doubt owing to 
his disappointment in love), and as it is not the 
cue of Mr. Wegg to have him out of temper, the 
latter gentleman soothingly remarks, ‘*I only put 
it as a little case; I only put it ha’porthetically.” 

“Then I’d rather, Mr. Wegg, you put it an- 
other time, penn’orthetically,’”’ is Mr. Venus’s re- 
tort, ‘‘for I tell you candidly I don’t like your 
little cases.” 

Arrived by this time in Mr. Wegg’s sitting-* 
room, made bright on the chilly evening by gas- 
light and fire, Mr. Venus softens and compli- 
ments him on his abode; profiting by the occa- 


'sion to remind Wegg that he (Venus) told him 


he had got into a good thing. 

‘¢ Tolerable,” Wegg rejoins.  ‘*But bear in 
mind, Mr. Venus, that there’s no gold without 
its alloy. Mix for yourself, and take a seat in. 
the clrimbley-corner. Will you perform upon a 
pipe, Sir?” . 

‘*T am but an indifferent performer, Sir,” re- 
turns the other; “but [ll accompany you with 
a whiff or two at intervals.” 

So, Mr. Venus mixes, and Wegg mixes; and 
Mr. Venus lights and puffs, and Wegg lights 
and puffs. | 

‘¢ And there’s alloy even in this metal of yours, 
Mr. Wegg, you was remarking ?” 

‘‘Mystery,” returns Wegg. ‘‘I don’t like it, 
Mr. Venus. I don’t like to have the life knocked 
out of former inhabitants of this house, in the 
gloomy dark, and not know who did it.” 

‘¢ Might you have any suspicions, Mr. Wegg?” 

‘¢No,’’ returns that gentleman. ‘‘I know who 
profits by it. But I’ve no suspicions.” 

Having said which, Mr. Wegg smokes and 
looks at the fire with a most determined expres- 
sion of Charity; as if he had caught that car- 
dinal virtue by the skirts as she felt it her pain- 
ful duty to depart from him, and held her by. 
main force. 

‘¢ Similarly,” resumes Wegg, ‘‘I have obser-— 
vations as I can offer upon certain points and 
parties; but I make no objections, Mr. Venus. 
Here is an immense fortune drops from the clouds 
upon a,person that shall be nameless. Here is 


138 


a weekly allowance, with a certain weight of 
coals, drops from the clouds upon me. Which 
of us is the better man ? Not the person that 
shall be nameless. ‘That’s an observation of 
mine, but I don’t make it an objection. I take 


my allowance and my certain weight of coals. 


He takes his fortune. That’s the way it works.” 

“Tt would be a good thing for me if I could 
see things in the calm light you do, Mr. Wegg.”’ 

‘¢ Again look here,” pursues Silas, with an 
oratorical flourish of his pipe and his wooden 
leg: the latter having an undignified tendency 
to tilt him back in his chair; ‘‘ here’s another 
observation, Mr. Venus, unaccompanied with an 
objection. Him that shall be nameless is liable 
to be talked over. He gets talked over. Him 
that shall be nameless, having me at his right 
hand, naturally looking to be promoted higher, 
and you may perhaps say meriting to be pro- 
moted higher—” 

(Mr. Venus murmurs that he does say so.) 

‘¢__Him that shall be nameless, under such 
circumstances passes me by, and puts a talking- 
over stranger above my head. Which of us two 
is the better man? Which of us two can repeat 
most poetry? Which of us two has, in the serv- 
ice of him that shall be nameless, tackled the 
Romans, both civil and military, till he has got 
as husky as if he’d been weaned and ever since 
brought up on saw-dust? Not the talking-over 
stranger. Yet the house is as free to him as if 
it was his, and he has his room, and is put upon 
a footing, and draws about a thousand a year. 
I am banished to the Bower, to be found in it 
like a piece of furniture whenever wanted, Mer- 
it, therefore, don’t win. That’s the way it works. 
I observe it, because I can’t help observing it, 
being accustomed to take a powerful sight of 
notice; but I don’t object. Ever here before, 
Mr. Venus ?” 

** Not inside the gate, Mr. Wegg.” 

**You’ve been as far as the gate then, Mr. 
Venus ?” 

“Yes, Mr. Wegg, and peeped in from curi- 
Osity.” 

** Did you see any thing ?” 

** Nothing but the dust-yard.” 

Mr. Wegg rolls his eyes all round the room, 
in that ever unsatisfied quest of his, and then 
rolls his eyes all round Mr. Venus; as if sus- 
picious of his having something about him to be 
found out. 

‘¢ And yet, Sir,” he pursues, ‘* being acquaint- 
ed with old Mr. Harmon, one wouldhave thought 
it might have been polite in you, too, to give him 
a call. And you're naturally of a polite dispo- 
sition, you are.” This last clause as a softening 
compliment to Mr. Venus. 

‘‘It is true, Sir,” replies Venus, winking his 
weak eyes, and running his fingers through his 
dusty shock of hair, ‘that I was so, before a 
certain observation soured me. You understand 
to what I allude, Mr. Wegg? To a certain»writ= 
ten statement respecting not wishing to be re- 
garded in a certain light. Since that all is fled, 
save gall.” 

‘Not all,” says Mr. Wegg, in a tone of sen- 
timental condolence. 

‘Yes’ Sir,” returns Venus, ‘all! The world 
may deem it harsh, but 1’d,quite as soon pitch 
into my best friend as not. Indeed, I’d soon- 
er |” . 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


| 

Involuntarily making a pass with his wooden 
leg to guard himself as Mr. Venus springs up 
in the emphasis of this unsociable declaration, 
Mr. Wegg tilts-over on his back, chair and all, . 
and-is rescued by that harmless misanthrope in — 
a disjointed state, and ruefully rubbing his head. 

‘¢Why, you lost your balance, Mr. Wegg,” 
says Venus, handing him his pipe. 

‘¢ And about time to do it,’”’ grumbles Silas, 
‘¢when a man’s visitors, without.a word of no- 
tice, conduct themselves with the sudden wicious- 
ness of Jacks-in-boxes! Don’t come flying out 
of your chair like that, Mr.’Venus !” 

*“‘T ask your pardon, Mr. Wegg. 
soured,” 

“‘Yes, but hang it,’ says Wegg, argumenta- 
tively, ‘*a well-governed mind can be soured 
sitting! And as to being regarded in lights, 
there’s bumpey lights as wellas bony. Jn which,” 
again rubbing his head, ‘‘ I object to regard my- 
self.” 

‘¢T’ll bear it in memory, Sir.” 

**Tf you'll be so good.” Mr. Wegg slowly 
subdues his ironical tone and his lingering irri- 
tation, and resumes his pipe. ‘‘ We were talk- 
ing of old Mr. Harmon being a friend of yours.” 

‘¢Not a friend, Mr. Wegg. Only known to 
speak to, and to have a little deal with now and 
then. A very inquisitive character, Mr. Wegg, 
regarding what was found in the dust. 
quisitive as secret.” 

‘¢ Ah! You found him secret?” returns Wegg, 
with a greedy relish. 

‘He had always the look of it, and the man- 
ner of it.” 

‘* Ah!” with another roll of his eyes. ‘* As 
to what was found in the dust now. Did you 
ever hear him mention how he found it, my dear 
friend? Living on the mysterious premises, one 
would like to know. For instance, where he 
found things? Or, for instance, how he set 
about it? Whether he began at the top of the 
mounds, or whether he began at the bottom. 
Whether he prodded ;” Mr. Wegg’s pantomime 
is skillful and expressive here; ‘‘ or whether he 
scooped? Should you say scooped, my dear Mr. 
Venus; or should you—as a man—say prod- 
deh” 

**f should say neither Mee Wegg.” 

‘* As a fellow-man, Mr. Venus—mix again— 
why neither ?” 

‘“* Because I suppose, Sir, that what was found 
was found in the sorting and sifting. All the 
mounds are sorted and sifted ?” 

‘*You shall see em and pass your opinion. 
Mix again.” dt 
On each occasion of his saying ‘* mix again,” — 
Mr. Wegg, with a hop on his wooden leg, hitch- 
es his chair a little nearer; more as if he were 
proposing that himself and Mr. Venus should 
mix again, than that they should replenish their 

glasses. 

‘* Living (as I said before) on the mysterious 
premises,” says Werg when the other has acted 
on his hospitable entreaty, ‘‘one likes to know. 
Would you be inclined to say now—as a brother 
—that he ever hid things in the dust, as well as 
found ’em ?”’ * 

‘‘Mr. Wegg, on the whole I should say he 
might.” ; F 

Mr. Wegg claps on his spectacles, and ad- — 
miringly surveys Mr. Venus from head to foot. 


I am so 


As in= —5 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘*As a mortal equally with myself, whose 
hand I take in mine for the first time this day, 
having unaccountably overlooked that act so full 
of boundless confidence binding a fellow-creetur 
to a fellow-creetur,” says Wegg, holding Mr. 

~Venus’s palm out, flat and ready for smiting, 
and now smiting it; ‘as sueh—and no other— 
for I scorn all lowlier ties betwixt myself and the 
man walking with his face erect that alone I call 
my Twin—regarded and regarding in this trust- 
ful bond—what do you think he might. have 
hid ?” 

‘¢It is but a supposition, Mr. Wegg.” 

‘As a Being with his hand upon his heart,” 
cries Wegg; and the apostrophe is not the less 
impressive for the Being’s hand being actually 
upon his rum and water, ‘ put your supposition 
into language, and bring it out, Mr. Venus !”’ 

*¢ We was the species of old gentleman, Sir,” 
slowly returns that practical anatomist, after 
drinking, ‘‘that I should judge likely to take 
such opportunities as this place offered, of.stow- 
ing away money, valuables, maybe papers.” 

_* As one that was ever an ornament to human 
life,” says Mr. Wegg, again holding out Mr. 
. Venus’s palm as if he were going to tell his for- 
tune by chiromancy, and holding his own up 
ready for smiting it when the time should come; 
‘fas one that the poet might have had his eye 
on in writing the national naval words: 
Helm a-weather, now lay her close, 
Yard arm and yard arm she lies; 
Again, cried I, Mr. Venus, give her t*other dose, 
Man shrouds and grapple, Sir, or she flies! 
—that is to say, regarded in the light of true 
British Oak, for such you are—explain, Mr. 
Venus, the expression ‘ papers’ !” 

** Seeing that the old gentleman was generally 
cutting off some near relation, or blocking out 
some natural affection,” Mr. Venus rejoins, ** he 
most likely made a good many wills and cod- 
icils.”’ 

The palm of Silas Wegg descends with a 
sounding smack upon the palm of Venus, and 
Wegg lavishly exclaims, ‘‘'T'win in opinion equal- 
ly with feeling! Mix a little more!” 

Having now hitched his wooden leg and his 
chair close in front of Mr. Venus, Mr. Wegg rap- 
idly mixes for both, gives his visitor his glass, 
touches its rim with the rim of his own, puts his 
own to his lips, puts it down, and spreading his 
hands on his visitor’s knees thus addresses him: 

‘*Mr. Venus. It ain’t that-I object to being 
passed over for a stranger, though I regard the 
stranger as a more than doubtful customer. It 
ain't for the sake of making money, though mon- 
ey is ever welcome. It ain’t for myself, though 
I am not so haughty as to be above doing my- 
self a good turn. It’s for the cause of the right.” 

Mr. Venus, passively winking his weak eyes 
both at once, demands: ‘* What is, Mr. Wegg ?” 

“The friendly move, Sir, that I now propose. 
You see the move, Sir?” 

*“Till you have pointed it out, Mr. Wegg, I 
can’t say whether I do or not.” 

“If there zs any thing to be found on these 
premises, let us find it together. Let us make 
the friendly move of agreeing to look for it “‘to- 
gether. Let us make the friendly move of agree- 
ing to share the profits of it equally betwixt us. 
In the cause of the right.” Thus Silas assuming 
a noble air. 


te 


139 


‘“*Then,’’ says Mr. Venus, looking up, after 
meditating with his hair held in his hands, as if 
he could only fix his-attention by fixing his head ; 
‘if any thing was to be unburied from under the 
dust, it would be kept a secret by you and me? 
Would that be it, Mr. Wegg?” 

‘“That would depend upon what it was, Mr. 
Venus. Say it was money, or plate, or jewelry, 
it would be as much ours as any body else’s.” 

Mr. Venus rubs an eyebrow, interrogatively. 

‘In the cause of the right it would. Because 
it would be unknowingly sold with the mounds 
else, and the buyer would get what he was never 
meant to have, and never bought. And what 
would that be, Mr. Venus, but the cause of the 
wrong ?” 

‘* Say it was papers,” Mr. Venus propounds. 

‘“* According to what they contained we should 
offer to dispose of ’em to the parties most inter- 
ested,” replies Wegg, promptly. 

‘Tn the cause of the right, Mr. Wegg ?” 

‘¢ Always so, Mr. Venus. Ifthe parties should 
use them in the cause of the wrong, that would 
be their act and deed. Mr, Venus. I have an 
opinion of you, Sir, to which it is not easy to give 
mouth... Since I called upon you that evening 
when you were, as I may say, floating your pow- 
erful mind in tea, I have felt that you required 
to be roused with an object. In this friendly 
move, Sir, you will have a glorious object to rouse 
you.” 

Mr. Wegg then goes on to enlarge upon what 
throughout has been uppermost in his crafty 
mind :—the qualifications of Mr. Venus for such 
asearch. He expatiates on Mr. Venus’s patient 
habits and delicate manipulation; on his skill in 
piecing little things together ;‘on his knowledge 


of various tissues and textures; on the likelihood 


of small indications leading him on to the discov- 
ery of great concealments. ‘*While as to my- 
self,” says Wegg, ‘‘I am not good at it. Wheth- 
er I gave myself up to prodding, or whether I 
gave myself up to scooping, I couldn’t do it with 
that delicate touch so as not to show that I was 
disturbing the mounds. Quite different with 
you, going to work (as you would) in the light of 
a fellow-man, holily pledged in a friendly move 
to his brother man.” Mr. Wegg next modestly 
remarks on the want of adaptation in a wooden 
leg to ladders and such like airy perches, and 
also hints at an inherent tendency in that timber 
fiction, when called into action for the purposes 
of a promenade on an ashy slope, to stick itself 
into the yielding foothold, and peg its owner to 
one spot. Then, leaving this part of the subject, 
he remarks on the special phenomenon that be- 
fore his installation in the Bower, it was from 
Mr. Venus that he first heard of the legend of 
hidden wealth in the Mounds: ‘‘ which,” he ob- 
serves with a vaguely pious air, ‘was surely 
never meant for nothing.”’ Lastly, he returns 
to the cause of the right, gloomily foreshadow- 
ing the possibility of something being unearthed 
to criminate Mr. Boffin (of whom he once more 
eandidly admits it can not be denied that he 
profits by a murder), and anticipating his de- 
nunciation by the friendly movers to avenging 
justice. And this, Mr. Wegg expressly points 
out, not at all for the sake of the reward—though 
it would be a want of principle not to take it. 
To all this, Mr. Venus, with his shock of dusty 
hair cocked after the manner of a terrier’s ears, 


140 
attends profoundly. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
When Mr. Wegg, having 


‘*Ts that any one I know ?” inquires the star- 


finished, opens his arms wide, as if to show Mr. | ing Secretary. 


Venus how bare his breast is, and then folds 
them pending a reply, Mr. Venus winks at him 
with both eyes some little time before speaking. 

‘“T see you have tried it by yourself, Mr. 
Wegg,”’ he says when he does speak. ‘*You 
have found out the difficulties by experience.” 

‘¢No, it can hardly be said that L have tried 
it,’’ replies Wegg, a little dashed by the hint. 
*¢] have just skimmed it. Skimmed it.” 

‘* And found nothing besides the difficulties ?” 

Weegg shakes his head. 

**I scarcely know what to say to this, Mr. 
Weegg,” observes Venus, after ruminating for a 
while. 

‘* Say yes,” Wegg naturally urges. 

‘Tf [ wasn’t soured, my answer would be no. 
But being soured, Mr. Wegg, and driven. to 
reckless madness and desperation, I suppose it’s 
Yes.” 

Wegg joyfully reproduces the two glasses, re- 
peats the ceremony of clinking their rims, and 
inwardly drinks with great heartiness to the 
health and success in life of the young lady who 
has reduced Mr. Venus to his present conven- 
ient state of mind. 

The articles of the friendly move are. then 
severally recited and agreed upon. ‘They are 
but secrecy, fidelity, and perseverance. The 
Bower to be always free of access to Mr. Venus 
for his researches, and every precaution to be 
taken against their attracting observation in the 
neighborhood. 

‘“'There’s a footstep!” exclaims Venus. 

‘* Where ?” cries Wegg, starting. 

**Ontaide. St!’ 

They are in the act of ratifying the treaty of 
friendly move, by shaking hands upon it. They 
softly break off, light their pipes which have 
gone out, and lean back in their chairs. No 
doubt, a footstep. It approaches the window, 
and a hand taps at the glass. ‘*Come in!” 
calls Wegg ; meaning come round by the door. 
But the heavy old-fashioned sash is slowly raised, 
and a head slowly looks in out of the dark back- 
ground of night. 

** Pray is Mr. Silas Wegg here? 
him !” 

The friendly movers might not have been 
quite at their ease, even though the visitor had 
entered in the usual manner. But, leaning on 
the breast-high window, and staring in out of 
the darkness, they find the visitor extremely 
embarrassing. Especially Mr. Venus: who re- 
moves his pipe, draws back his head, and stares 
at the starer, as if it were his own Hindoo baby 
come to fetch him home. 

‘**Good-evening, Mr. Wegg. The yard gate- 
lock should be looked to, if youplease ; it don’t 
catch.” 

“‘Ts it Mr. Rokesmith ?” falters Wegg. 

‘*Tt is Mr. Rokesmith. Don’t let me disturb 
you. Jam not coming in. I have only a mes- 
sage for you, which I undertook to deliver on 
my way home to my lodgings. I was in two 
minds about coming beyond the gate without 
ringing: not knowing but you might have a 
dog about.” 

‘¢T wish I had,” mutters Wegg, with his back 
turned as he rose from his chair. ‘*St! Hush! 
The talking-over stranger, Mr. Venus.” 


Oh! I see 


‘*No, Mr. Rokesmith. Friend of mine. Pass-. 
ing the evening with me.” 

‘*Oh! I beg his pardon; 
you to know that he does not expect you to stay 
at home any evening, on the chance of his com- 
ing. It has oceurred to him that he may, with- 
out intending it, have been a tie upon you. In 
future, if he should come without notice, he will 
take his chance of finding you, and it will be all 
the same to him if he does not. I undertook to 
tell you on my way. That’s all.” 

With that, and ‘‘Good-night,” ¢he Secretary 
lowers the window, and disappears. They list- 
en, and hear his footsteps go back to the gate, 
and hear the gate close after him. 

‘‘And for that individual, Mr. Venus,”. re- 
marks Wegg, when he is fully gone, ‘*Z have 
been passed over! Let me ask you what you 
think of him ?” 

Apparently, Mr. Venus does not know what 
to think of him, for he makes sundry efforts to 
reply, without delivering himself of any other 


articulate utterance than that he has ‘‘a singu- 


lar look.” 

‘*A double look, you mean, Sir,” rejoins 
Wegg, playing bitterly upon the word. ‘‘That’s 
his look. Any amount of singular look for me, 
but not.a double look! That’s an underhanded 
mind, Sir.” 

‘*Do you say there’s something against him ?” 
Venus asks. 

‘*Something against him?” repeats Wegg. 
‘Something? What would the relief be to my 
feelings—as a fellow-man—if I wasn’t the slave 
of truth, and didn’t feel myself compelled to an- 
swer, Every thing!” 

See into what wonderful maudlin refuges 
featherless ostriches plunge their heads! It is 
such unspeakable moral compensation to Wegg 
to be overcome by the consideration that Mr. 
Rokesmith has an underhanded mind! 

‘*On this starlight night, Mr. Venus,” he re- 
marks, when he is showing that friendly mover 
out across the yard, and both are something the 
worse for mixing again and again: “on this 
starlight night to think that talking-over stran- 
gers, and underhanded minds, can go walk- 
ing home under the sky, as if they was all 
square !”’ 

‘*'The spectacle of those orbs,” says Mr. Ve- 


nus, gazing upward with his hat tumbling off, » 


‘*brings heavy on me her crushing words that 
she did not wish to regard herself nor yet to be 
regarded in that—” 

‘‘T know! Iknow! You needn’t repeat ’em,” 
says Wegg, pressing his hand. ‘‘ But think how 
those stars steady me in the cause of the right 
against some that shall be nameless. It isn’t 
that I bear malice. But see how they glisten 
with old remembrances! Old remembrances 
of what, Sir?” 

Mr. Venus begins drearily replying, ‘‘ Of her 


words, in her own handwriting, that she does _ 


not wish to regard -herself, nor yet—” when 
Silas cuts him short with dignity. 
‘*No, Sir! Remembrances of Our House, 


of Master George, of Aunt Jane, of Uncle Park- 
All offered up sacrifices to 
the minion of fortune and the worm of the 


er, all laid waste! 


hour !” 


Mr. Boffin wishes © 


‘ \ 


a 


La 


ae ti 


CHAPTER VIII. 
IN WHICH AN INNOCENT ELOPEMENT OCCURS. 


THE minion of fortune and the worm of the 
hour, or in less cutting language, Nicodemus-- 
Boffin, Esquire, the Golden Dustman, had be- 
come as much at home in his eminently aristo= 
cratic family mansion as he was likely ever to 
be. He could not but feel that, like an em- 
inently aristocratic family cheese, it was much 
too large for his wants, and bred an infinite 
amount of parasites; but he was content to re- 
gard this drawback on his property as a sort 
of perpetual Legacy Duty. He felt the more 
resigned to it, forasmuch as Mrs. Boffin enjoy- 
ed herself completely, and Miss Bella was. de- 
lighted. 

That young lady was, no doubt, an acquisition 
to the Boflins. She was far too pretty to be un- 
attractive any where, and far too quick of per- 
ception to be below the tone of her new career. 
Whether it improved her heart might be a mat- 
ter of taste that was open to question; but as 
touching another matter of taste, its improve- 
ment of her appearance and manner, there could 
be no question whatever. 

And thus it soon came abont that Miss Bella 
began to set Mrs. Boffin right; and even fur- 
ther, that Miss Bella began to feel ill at ease, 
and as it were responsible, when she saw Mrs. 
Boffin going wrong. Not that so sweet a dispo- 
sition and so sound a nature could ever go very 
wrong even among the great visiting authorities 
who agreed that the Boffins were ‘charmingly 
vulgar” (which for certain was not their own 
case in saying so), but that when she made aslip 
on the social ice on which all the children of 
Podsnappery, with genteel souls to be saved, are 
required to skate in circles, or to slide in long 
rows, she inevitably tripped Miss Bella up (so 
that young lady felt), and caused her to experi- 
ence great confusion under the glances of the 


-more skillful performers engaged in those ice- 


exercises. 

At Miss Bella’s time of life it was not to be 
expected that she should examine herself very 
closely on the congruity or stability of her posi- 
tion in Mr. Boffin’s house. And as she had 
never. been sparing of complaints of her old 
home when she had no other to compare it 
With, so there was no novelty of ingratitude or 
disdain in her very much preferring her new 
one. 

_ **An invaluable man is Rokesmith,” said Mr. 
Boffin, after some two or three months. ‘But 
IT can’t quite make him out.” 

Neither could Bella, so she found the subject 
rather interesting. 

*‘ He takes more care of my affairs, morning, 
noon, and night,” said Mr. Boffin, *‘ than fifty 
other men put together either could or would; 
and yet he has ways of his own that are like ty- 
ing a scaffolding pole right across the road, and 
bringing me up short when I am almost a-walk- 
ing arm in arm with him.” 

‘“‘May I ask how so, Sir?” inquired Bella. 

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin, “‘he won't. 
meet any company here but you. When we 
have visitors, I should wish him to have his reg- 


ular place at the table like ourselves; but no, he 


won’t take it.” 


“If he considers himself above it,” said Miss 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


141 


Bella, with an airy toss of her head, “I should 
leave him alone.” 

“It ain't that, my dear,” replied Mr. Boffin, 
thinking it over. ‘*He don’t consider himself 
above it.” 

‘*Perhaps he considers himself ‘beneath 
suggested Bella. 
best.” 

‘‘No, my dear; nor it ain’t that, neither. 
No,” repeated Mr. Boffin, with a shake-of his 
head, after again thinking it over: ‘‘ Rokesmith’s 
a modest man, but he don’t consider himself be- 
neath it.” 

‘Then what does he consider it, Sir?” asked 
Bella. 

‘* Dashed if I know!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘It 
seemed at first as if it was only Lightwood that 
he objected to meet. And now it seems to be 
every body, except you.” 

**Oho!” thought Miss Bella. ‘‘In—deed! 
That's it, is it!” For Mr. Mortimer Lightwood 
had dined there two or three times, and she had 
met him elsewhere, and he had shown her sume 
attention. “Rather cool in a Secretary—and 
Pa’s lodger—to make me the subject of his jeal- 
ousy !” 

That Pa’s daughter should be so contemptu- 
ous of Pa’s lodger was odd; but there were odder 
anomalies than that in the mind of the spoilt 
girl: the doubly spoilt girl: spoilt first by pov- 
erty, and then by wealth. Be it this history's 
part, however, to leave them to unravel them- 
selves. 

‘*A little too much, I think,” Miss Bella re- 
flected scornfully, ‘to have Pa’s lodger laying 
claim to me, and keeping eligible people off! A 
little too much, indeed, to have the oppoftunities 
opened to me by Mr. and Mrs. Boffin appropri- 
ated by a mere Secretary and Pa’s lodger !” 

Yet it was not so very long ago that Bella had 
been fluttered by the discovery that this same 
Secretary and lodger seemed to like her. Ah! 
but the eminently aristocratic mansion and Mrs. 
Boffin’s dress-maker had not come into play then. 

In spite of his seemingly retiring manners a 
very intrusive person, this Secretary and lodger, 
in Miss Bella’s opinion. Always a light in his 
oflice-room when we came home from the play 
or Opera, and he always at the carriage-door to 
hand us out... Always a provoking radiance too 
on Mrs. Boffin’s face, and an abominably cheer- 
ful reception of him,.as if it were possible seri- 
ously to approve what the man had in his mind! 

“* You never charge me, Miss Wilfer,”’ said the 
Secretary, encountering her by chance alone in 
the great drawing-room, ‘‘ with commissions for 
home. I shall always be happy to execute any 
commands you may have in that direction.” 

‘* Pray what may you mean, Mr. Rokesmith ?” 
inquired Miss Bella, with languidly drooping eye- 
lids. 

‘*By home? I mean your father’s house at 
Holloway.” 

She colored under the retort—so skillfully 
thrust, that the words seemed to be merely a 
plain answer, given in plain good faith —and 
said, rather more emphatically and sharply: 

‘* What commissions and commands are you 
speaking of ?” 

**Only such little words of remembrance as I 
assume you send somehow or other,” replied the 
Secretary with his former air. ‘It would bea 


idee 
‘If so, he ought to know 


4 


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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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PA’S LODGER, AND PA'S DAUGHTER. 


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digressed from, 


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But I forbear to trouble 


and the like. 
as vou never ask me. 


you, 


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Sir,” said Bella, looking at h 


as if he had reproved her, ‘‘ to see them to-mor- | 
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‘ance to me,” said | sages, 


at was your ex- 


so when she met his quiet look. 
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Bella, making haste to take refuge in ill usage. 


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quentiv ask me about you 
ch slight intelligence as I can. 


sa 
‘“‘T hope it’s truly given, 


give them 
‘‘T hope you can not doubt it, for it would be 


very much against you, if you could.” 


““No, I do not doubt it. 


‘They frec 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


6¢To both? Shall I make it a message?” . 

‘¢You can if you like, Mr. Rokesmith. Mes- 
.gage or no message, I am going to see them to- 
morrow.” 

‘¢Then I will tell them so.” 

He lingered a moment, as though to give her 
the opportunity of prolonging the conversation 
if she wished. As she remained silent, he left 
her. ‘Two incidents of the little interview were 
felt by Miss Bella herself, when alone again, to 
be very curious, The first was, that he unques- 
tionably left her with a penitent air upon her, 
and a penitent feeling in her heart. The second 
was, that she had not had an intention or a 
thought of going home until she had announced 
it to him as a settled design. 

«¢ What can I mean by it, or what can he mean 
by it?’? was her mental inquiry: ‘‘He has no 
right to any power over me, and how do I come 
to mind him when I don’t care for him ?” 

Mrs. Boffin, insisting that Bella should make 
to-morrow’s expedition in the chariot, she went 
home in great grandeur. Mrs. Wilfer and Miss 
Lavinia had speculated much on the probabili- 
ties and improbabilities of her coming in this 
gorgeous state, and, on beholding the chariot 
from the window at which they were secreted to 
look out for it, agreed that it must be detained 
at the door as long as possible, for the-mortifica- 
tion and confusion of the neighbors. Then they 
repaired to the usual family room, to receive 
Miss Bella with a becoming show of indiffer- 
ence. 

~The family room looked very small and very 
mean, and the downward staircase by which it 
wasattained looked very narrowand very crooked. 
The little house and all its arrangements were a 
poor contrast to the eminently aristocratic dwell- 
ing. ‘I can hardly believe,” thought Bella, 
“that I ever did endure life in this place!” 

Gloomy majesty on the part of Mrs. Wilfer, 
and native pertness on the part of Lavvy, did 
not mend the matter. Bella really stood in nat- 
ural need of a little help, and she got none. 

‘‘This,” said Mrs. Wilfer, presenting a cheek 
to be kissed, as sympathetic and responsive as 
the back of the bowl of a spoon, ‘‘is quite an 
honor! You will probably find your sister Lay- 
vy grown, Bella.” 

“¢ Ma,” Miss Lavinia interposed, ‘‘there can be 
no objection to your being aggravating, because 
Bella richly deserves it; but I really must request 
that you will not drag in such ridiculous non- 
‘ sense as my having grown when I am past the 
growing age.” 

“‘T grew myself,” Mrs. Wilfer sternly pro- 
claimed, ‘‘after I was married.” 

“Very well, Ma,” returned Lavvy, “then I 
think you had much better have left it alone.” 
The lofty glare with which the majestic wo- 
man received this answer might have embar- 
rassed a less pert opponent, but it had no effect 
upon Lavinia: who, leaving her parent to the 
enjoyment of any amount of glaring that she 
might deem desirable under the circumstances, 
accosted her sister, undismayed. : 

‘<I suppose you won’t consider yourself quite 
disgraced, Bella, if I give you a kiss? Well! 
_And how do you do, Bella? And how are your 
- Boffins ?” 

_ ** Peace!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘ Hold! 
I will not suffer this tone of levity.” 


143 


‘*My goodness me! How are your Spoffins, 
then?” said Lavvy, ‘‘since Ma so very much 


objects to your Boffins.”’ 


‘‘Impertinent, girl! Minx!” said Mrs. Wil- 
fer, with dread severity. 

“I don’t care whether I am a Minx or a 
Sphinx,”’ returned Lavinia, coolly, tossing her 
head; ‘‘it’s exactly the same thing to me, and 
I'd every bit as soon be one as the other; but I 
know this—I’ll not grow after I am married !” 

‘You will not? You will not?” repeated 
Mrs. Wilfer, solemnly. 

‘“No, Ma, I will not. Nothing shall induce 
me;;’ 

Mrs. Wilfer, having waved her gloves, be- 
came loftily pathetic. ‘‘But it was to be ex- 
pected ;” thus she spake. ‘‘ A child of mine de- 
serts me for the proud and prosperous, and an- 
other child of mime despises me. It is quite 
fitting.” 

‘“‘ Ma,” Bella struck in, ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Boffin 
are prosperous, no doubt; but you have no right 
to say they are proud. You must know very 
well that they are not.”’ 

‘¢In short, Ma,” said Lavvy, bouncing over to 
the enemy without a word of notice, ‘* you must 
know very well—or if you don’t, more shame for 
you!—that Mr. and Mrs. Boffin are just.abso- 
lute perfection.” 

“Pruly;” returned Mrs. Wilfer, courteously 
receiving the deserter, ‘‘it would seem that we 
are required to think so. And this, Lavinia, is 
my reason for objecting to a tone of levity. Mrs. 
Boftin (of whose physiognomy I can never speak 
with the composure I would desire to preserve) 
and your mother are not on terms of intimacy. 
It is not for a moment to be supposed that she 
and her husband dare to presume to speak of 
this family as the Wilfers. I can not therefore 


‘condescend to speak of them as the Boffins. 


No; for such a tone—call it familiarity, levity, 
equality, or what you will—would imply those 
social interchanges which do not exist. Do I 
render myself intelligible ?” 

Without taking the least notice of this inquiry, 
albeit delivered in an imposing and forensic 
manner, Lavinia reminded her sister, ‘* After 
all, you know, Bella, you haven’t told us how 
your Whatshisnames are.” 

“TI don’t want to speak of them here,” replied 
Bella, suppressing indignation, and tapping her 
foot on the floor. ‘‘They are much too kind 
and too good to be drawn into these discus- 
sions.” 

‘‘Why put it so?” demanded Mrs. Wilfer, 
with biting sarcasm. ‘* Why adopt a circuitous 
form of speech? It is polite and it is obliging ; 
but why do it? Why not openly say that they 
are much too kind and too good for ws? We 
understand the allusion. Why disguise the 
phrase ?”’ 

‘¢Ma,” said Bella, with one beat of her foot, 
‘¢vou are enough to drive a saint mad, and so is 
Lavvy.” 

“Unfortunate Lavvy!” 
a tone of commiseration. ‘‘She always comes 
in for it. My poor child!” But Lavvy, with 
the snddenness of her former desertion, now 
bounced over to the other enemy: very sharply 


cried Mrs. Wilfer a 


remarking, ‘‘ Don’t patronize meyMa,beeause I 


can take care of myself.” 
‘‘T only wonder,” resumed Mrs. Wilfer, di-~ 


144 


recting her observations to her elder daughter, 
as safer on the whole than her utterly unman- 
ageable younger, ‘‘that you found time and in- 
clination to tear yourself from Mr. and Mrs. 
Boffin, and come to see us at all. I only wonder 
that our claims, contending against the superior 
claims of Mr. and Mrs. Boftin, had any weight. 
I feel [ ought to be thankful for gaining so much 
in competition with Mr, amd Mrs. Boffin.” (The 
good lady bitterly emphasized the first letter of 
the word Boffin, as if it represented her chief 
objection to the owners of that name, and as if 
she could have borne Doffin, Moffin, or Poffin 
much better.) 

‘¢Ma,”’ said Bella, angrily, ‘‘ you force me to 
say that I am truly sorry I did come home, and 
that I never will come home again, except when 
poor dear Pais here. For, Pa is too magnani- 
mous to feel envy and spite toward my generous 
friends. and Pa is delicate enough and gentle 
enough to remember the sort of little claim they 
thought I had upon them, and the unusually try- 
ing position in which, through no act of my own, 
I had been placed. And I always did love poor 
dear Pa better than all the rest of you put to- 
gether, and I always do and I always shall!” 

Here Bella, deriving no comfort from her 
charming bonnet and her elegant dress, burst 
into tears. 

“*T think, R. W.,” cried Mrs. Wilfer, lifting 
up her eyes and apostrophizing the air, ‘‘that if 
you were present, it would be a trial to your feel- 
ings to hear your wife and the mother of your 
family depreciated in your name. But Fate has 
spared you this, R. W., whatever it may have 
thought proper to inflict upon her!” 

Here Mrs. Wilfer burst into tears. 

‘*T hate the Boffins!” protested Miss Lavinia. 
“T don’t care who objects to their being called 
the Boffins.” I wit call ’em the Boffins. The 
Boffins, the Boffins, the Boffins! And I say 
they are mischief-making Boflins, and I say the 
Bofttins have set Bella against me, and I tell the 
Boffins to their faces:” which was not strictly 
the fact, but the young lady was excited; ‘‘ that 
they are detestable Boffins, disreputable Boffins, 
odious Bofiins, beastly Boffins. There!” 

Here Miss Lavinia burst into tears. 

The front garden-gate clanked, and the Secre- 
tary was seen coming at a brisk pace up the 
steps. ‘‘Leave Me to onen the door to him,” 
said Mrs. Wilfer, rising with stately resignation 
as she shook her head and dried her eyes; ‘‘we 
have at present no stipendiary girl to do so. 
We have nothing to conceal. If he sees these 
traces of emotion on our cheeks, let him construe 
them as he may.” 

With those words she stalked out. In a few 
moments she stalked in again, proclaiming in 
her heraldic manner, ‘‘Mr. Rokesmith is the 
bearer of a packet for Migs Bella Wilfer.” 

Mr. Rokesmith followed close upon his name, 
and of course saw what was amiss. But he dis- 
creetly affected to see nothing, and addressed 
Miss Bella. 

‘‘Mr. Boffin intended to have placed this in 
the carriage for you this morning. He wished 
you to have it, as a little keepsake he had pre- 
pared—it is only a purse, Miss Wilfer—but as 
he was disappointed in his fancy, I volunteered 
to come after you with it.” 

Bella took it in her hand, and thanked him. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘We have been quarreling here a little, Mr. 


Rokesmith, but not more than we used; you. 


know our agreeable ways among ourselves. You 
find me just going. Good-by, mamma. Good- 
by, Lavvy !” 
Bella turned to the door, The Secretary would 
have attended her, but Mrs. Wilfer advancing 
and saying with dignity, ‘‘Pardon me! Per- 
mit me to assert my natural right to escort my 
child to the equipage which is in waiting for 
her,” he begged pardon and gaye place. It-was 
a very magnificent spectacle indeed, to see“Mrs. 
Wilfer throw open the house-door, and loudly 
demand with extended gloves, ‘‘The male do- 
mestic of Mrs. Boffin!” ‘To whom presenting 
himself, she delivered the brief but majestic 
charge, ‘‘ Miss Wilfer. Coming out!” and so 
delivered her over, like a female Lieutenant of 
the Tower relinquishing a State Prisoner. The 
effect of this ceremonial was for some quarter 
of an hour afterward perfectly paralyzing on the 
neighbors, and was much enhanced by the wor- 
thy lady airing herself for that term in a kind 
of splendidly serene trance on the top: step. 

When Bella was seated in the carriage, she 
opened the little packet in her hand. It con- 
tained a pretty purse, and the purse contained 
a bank-note for fifty pounds. ‘‘This shall be 
a joyful surprise for poor dear Pa,” said Bella, 
‘*and I'll take it myself into the City !” 

As she was uninformed respecting the exact 


locality of the place of business of Chicksey Ve- _ 


neering and Stobbles, but knew it to be near 
Mincing Lane, she directed herself to be driven 
to the corner of that darksome spot. Thence 
she dispatched ‘‘ the male domestic of Mrs. Bof- 
fin” in search of the counting-honse of Chicksey 
Veneering and Stobbles, with a message import- 
ing that if R. Wilfer could come out, there was 
a lady waiting who would be glad to speak with 
him. ‘The delivery of these mysterious words 
from the mouth of a footman caused so great 
an excitement in the counting-house that a 
youthful scout was instantly appointed to fol- 
low Rumty, observe the lady, and come in with 
his report. Nor was the agitation by any means 
diminished when the scout rushed back with the 
intelligence that the lady was ‘‘a slap-up gal in 
a bang-up chariot.” 

Rumty himself, with his pen behind his ear 
under his rusty hat, arrived at the carriage-door 
in a breathless condition, and had been fairly 
lugged into the vehicle by his cravat and em- 
braced almost unto choking, before he recog- 
nized his daughter. ‘* My dear child!” he then 
panted, incoherently. ‘*Good gracious me! 
What a lovely woman you are! I thought you 
had been unkind, and forgotten your mother and 
sister.” 

‘*] have just been to see them, Pa dear.” 

**Oh! and how—how did you'find your mo- 
ther?” asked R. W., dubiously. 

‘¢ Very disagreeable, Pa, and so was Lavvy.” 

“They are sometimes a little liable to it,” 
observed the patient cherub; ‘‘ but I hope you 
made allowances, Bella, my dear?’ 

‘“‘No. I was disagreeable too, Pa; we were 
all of us disagreeable together. But I want you 
to come and dine with me somewhere, Pa.” 

‘* Why, my dear, I have already partaken of 
a—if one might mention such an article in this 


superb chariot—of a—Saveloy,” replied R. Wil- a 


And with a kiss for each Miss °° 


~ 


were wet), and he bobbed away again. 


formed, that 
him in ecstatic admiration twenty times, before 


Nuts 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


fer, modestly dropping his voice on the word, as 
he eyed the canary-colored fittings. - 

Oh! That’s nothing, Pa.” 

“Truly, it ain’t as much as one could some- 
times wish it to be, my dear,” he admitted, 
drawing his hand across his mouth. ‘‘ Still, 
when circumstances over which yot have no 
control interpose obstacles between yourself and 
Small Germans, you can’t do better than bring 
a contented mind to bear on”—again dropping 
his voice in deference to the chariot—‘‘ Save- 


. loys!” 


**You poor good Pa! Pa do, I beg and pray, 
get leave for the rest of the day, and come and 
pass it with me!” 

‘Well, my dear, I'll cut back and ask for 
leave.” 

“‘But before you cut back,” said Bella, who 
had already taken him by the chin, pulled his 
hat otf, and begun to stick up his hair in her old 
way, ‘‘do say that you are sure I am giddy and 
-reaoarai but have never really slighted you, 

ae? , ; 
**My dear, I say it with all my heart. And 
might I likewise observe;” her father delicately 


hinted, with a glance out at window, ‘‘ that per- 


haps it might be calculated to attract attention, 
having one’s hair publicly done by a lovely wo- 
man in an elegant turn-out in Fenchurch Street?” 

Bella laughed and put on his hat again. But 
when his boyish figure bobbed away, its shabbi- 
ness and cheerful patience smote the tears out 
of her eyes. ‘‘I hate that Secretary for think- 
ing it of me,” she said to herself, ‘‘ and yet it 
seems half true!” 

Back came her father, more like a boy than 
ever, in his release from school. “ All right, 
my dear. Leave given at once. Really very 
handsomely done!” 

‘‘ Now where can we find some quiet place, 
Pa, in which I can wait for you while you go 
on an errand for me, if send the carriage away?” 

It demanded cogitation. ‘*Yousee, my dear,” 
he explained, ‘‘you really have become such a 
very lovely woman, that it ought to be a very 
quiet place.” At length he suggested, ‘‘ Near 
the garden up by the Trinity House on Tower 
Hill.” So they were driven there, and Bella 


dismissed the chariot; sending a penciled note 


by it to Mrs. Boffin, that she was with her fa- 
ther. 

“‘Now, Pa, attend to what I am. going to say, 
and promise and vow to be obedient.” 

**T promise and vow, my dear.” 

*¢You ask no questions. You take this purse; 
you go to the nearest place where they keep.ev- 
ery thing of the very very best, ready-made ; you 
buy and put on the most beautiful suit of clothes, 
the most beautiful hat, and the most beautiful pair 
of bright boots (patent leather, Pa, mind!) that 
are to be got for money; and you come back.to 
me.” 

“But, my dear Bella—” 

“Take care, Pa!” pointing her forefinger at 
him, merrily. ‘‘ You have promised and vowed. 
It’s perjury, you know.” 

There was water in the foolish little fellow’s 
eyes, but she kissed them dry (though her own 
After 
half an hour he came back, so brilliantly trans- 
ella was obliged to walk round 


A 


aa bn 
* 


: v F . 4 : 


145 


she could draw her arm through his, and de- 
lightedly squeeze it. 

‘‘Now, Pa,” said Bella, hugging him close, 
‘¢take this lovely woman out to dinner.” 

‘¢'Where shall we go, my dear ?” 

‘*Greenwich!” said Bella, valiantly.’ ‘* And 
be sure.you treat this lovely woman with every 
thing of the best.” 

While they were going along to take boat, 
‘*Don’t you wish, my dear,” said R. W., tim- 
idly, ‘* that your mother was here ?” 

**No, I don’t, Pa, for I like to have you all to © 
myself to-day. I was always your little favorite 
at home, and you were always mine. -We have 
run away together often, before now; haven't 
we, Pa?” 

‘* Ah, to be sure we have! Many a Sunday 
when your mother was-—was a little liable to it,” 
repeating his former delicate expression after 
pausing to cough. 

‘‘Yes, and I am afraid I was seldom or never 
as good as I ought to have been, Pa. I made 
you carry me, over-and over again, when you 
should have made me walk; and I often drove 
you in harness, when you would much rather 
have sat down and read your newspaper: 
didn’t 1?” 

‘‘Sometimes, sometimes. But Lor, what a 
child you were! What a companion you were !” 

‘“‘Companion? ‘That’s just what I want to be 
to-day, Pa.” . 

‘‘You are safe to succeed, my love. Your 
brothers and sisters have all in their turns-been 
companions to me, to a.certain.extent,.but.only 
to a certain extent. Your mother has, through- 
out life, been a companion that any man might 
—might look up to—and—and commit the say- 
ings of, to memory—and—form himself upon— 
if he—” 

‘‘Tf he liked the model ?” suggested Bella. 

‘¢ We-ell, ye-es,”’ he returned, thinking about 
it, not quite satisfied with the phrase: ‘or per- 
haps I might say, if it was in him. Supposing, 
for instance, that'a man wanted to be always 
marching, he would find your mother an ines- 
timable companion. But if he had any taste 
for walking, or should wish at any time to break 
into a trot, he might sometimes find it a little 
difficult to keep step with your mother. Or 
take it this way, Bella,” he added, after a mo- 
ment’s reflection: ‘‘Supposing that a man had 
to go through life, we won’t say with a compan- 
ion, but we'llsay toa tune. Very good. Sup- 
posing that the tune allotted to him was the 
Dead March in Saul. Well. It would be a 
very suitable tune for particular occasions— 
none better—but it would be difficult to keep 
time with in the ordinary run of domestic trans- 
actions. For instance, if he took his supper 
after a hard day to the Dead March in Saul, 
his food might be likely to sit heavy on him. 
Or, if he was at any time inclined to relieve his 
mind by singing a comic song or dancing a horn- 
pipe, and was obliged to do it to the Dead March 
in Saul, he might find himself put out in the ex- 
ecution of his lively intentions.” 

“Poor Pa!” thought Bella, as she hung upon 
his arm. 

‘é Now, what I will say for you, my dear,” the 
cherub pursued mildly and without a notion of 
complaining, “is, that you are so adaptable. 
So adaptable.” 


146._ 


“Indeed I am afraid I have shown a wretched 
temper, Pa. Iam afraid I have been very com- 
plaining, and very capricious. Iseldom or never 
thought of it before. But when I sat in the car- 
rlage just now and saw you coming along the 
pavement, I reproached myself.” 

‘¢ Not at all, my dear. Don't speak of such 
a thing.” 

A happy and a chatty man was Pa in his new 
clothes that day. ‘Take it for all in all, it was 
perhaps the happiest day he had ever known in. 
his life; not even excepting that on which his 
heroic partner had approached the nuptial altar 
to the tune of the Dead March in Saul. 

The little expedition down the river was de- 
lightful, and the little room overlooking the 
river into which they were shown for dinner 
was delightful. Every thing was delightful. 
The park was delightful, the punch was delight- 
ful, the dishes of fish were delightful, the wine 
was delightful. Bella was more delightful than 
any other item in the festival; drawing Pa out 
in the gayest manner; making a point of al- 
ways mentioning herself as the lovely woman; 
stimulating Pa to order thmgs, by declaring 
that the lovely woman insisted on being treated 
with them; and in short causing Pa to be quite 
enraptured with the consideration that he was 
the Pa of such a charming daughter. 

And then, as they sat looking at the ships 
and steamboats making their way to the sea 
with the tide that was running down, the lovely 
woman imagined all sorts of voyages for herself 
and Pa. Now, Pa, in the character of owner 
of a lumbering square-sailed collier, was tacking 
away to Newcastle, to fetch black diamonds to 
make his fortune with; now, Pa was going to 
China in that handsome three-masted ship, to 
bring home opium, with which he would forever 
cut out Chicksey Veneering and Stobbles, and 
to bring home silks and shawls without end for 
the decoration of his charming daughter. Now, 
John Harmon’s disastrous fate was all a dream, 
and he had come home and found the lovely wo- 
man just the article for him, and the lovely wo- 
man had found him just the article for her, and 
they were going away on a trip, in their gallant 
bark, to look after their vines, with streamers 
flying at all points, a band playing on deck, and 
Pa established in the great cabin. Now, John 
Harmon was consigned to his grave again, and 
a merchant of immense wealth (name unknown) 
had courted and married the lovely woman, and 
he was so enormously rich that every thing you 
saw upon the river sailing or steaming belonged 
to him, and he kept a perfect fleet of yachts for 
pleasure, and that little impudent yacht which 
you saw over there, with the great white sail, 
was called Zhe Bella, in honor of his wife, and 
she held her state aboard when it pleased her, 
like a modern Cleopatra. Anon, there would 
embark in that troop-ship when she got to 
Gravesend, a mighty general, of large property 
(name also unknown), who wouldn’t hear of 
going to victory without his wife, and whose 
wife was the lovely woman, and she was des- 
tined to become the idol of all the red coats and 
blue jackets alow and aloft. And then again: 
you saw that ship being towed out by a steam- 
tug? Well! where did you suppose she was 
going to? Shewas going among the coral reefs 
and cocoa-nuts and all that sort of thing, and 


she was chartered for a fortunate individual of. e | 


the name of Pa (himself on board, and much 
respected by all hands), and she was going, for 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, | Clg 


his sole profit and advantage, to fetch a cargo 


of sweet-smelling woods, the most beautiful that 


ever were seen, and the most. profitable that 
never were heard of, and her cargo would be a 
great fortune, as indeed it ought to be: the love- 
ly woman who had purchased her and fitted her 


expressly for this voyage being married to, an 


Indian Prince, who was a Something-or-Other, 
and who wore Cashmere shawls. all over him- 
self, and diamonds and emeralds blazing in his 
turban, and was beautifully coffee-colored and 
excessively devoted, though a little too jealous. 
Thus Bella ran on merrily, in a manner perfect- 
ly enchanting to Pa, who was as willing to put 
his head into the Sultan’s tub of water as the 
beggar-boys below the window were to put their 
heads in thé mud. 

*“T suppose, my dear,” said Pa after dinner, 
‘““we may come to the conclusion at home that 
we have lost you for good ?” ’ 

Bella shook her head. Didn’t know. Couldn’t 
say. All she was ablé to report was, that she 
was most handsomely supplied with every thing 
she could possibly want, and that whenever she 
hinted at leaving Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, they 
wouldn’t hear of it. 
~ “ And now, Pa,” pursued Bella, ‘‘I’ll make 
a confession to you. J am the most mercenary 
little wretch that ever-lived in the world.” 

‘**T should hardly have thought it of you, my 


dear,” returned her father, first glancing at him- 


self, and then at the dessert. 

“ T understand what you mean, Pa, but it’s not 
that. 
money, but I do care so much for what it will 
buy !” 

“¢ Really I think most of us do,” returned R.W. 

**But not to the dreadful extent that I do, 
Pa. O-o!” cried Bella, screwing the exclama- 
tion out of herself with a twist of her dimpled 
chin. ‘‘I AM so mercenary !” 

With a wistful glance R. W. said, in default 
of having any thing better to say: ‘‘ About when 
did you begin to feel it coming on, my dear ?” 

‘‘'That’s it, Pa. That’s the terrible part of it. 
When I was at home, and only knew what it was 
to be poor, I grumbled, but didn’t so much mind. 
When 1 was at home expecting to be rich, I 


thought vaguely of all the great things I would > 
But when I had been disappointed of my — 


do. 
splendid fortune, and came to see it from day to 
day in other hands, and to hgave before my eyes 
what it could really do, then I became the mer- 
cenary little wretch I am.” 

‘*Tt’s your fancy, my dear.” 

“‘T can assure you it’s nothing of the sort, 
Pa!” said Bella, nodding at him, with her very 


~ 


pretty eyebrows raised as high as they would go,. 


and looking comically frightened. ‘‘ It’s a fact. 
I am always avariciously scheming.” 

“Lor! But how?” 

“T’ll tell you, Pa. I don’t mind telling you, 
because we have always been favorites of each 
other’s, and because you are not like a Pa, but 
more like a sort of a younger brother with a dear 
venerable chubbiness on him, And _ besides,” 


added Bella, laughing as she pointed a rallying 
finger at his face, ‘‘ because I have got you in — 


my power. This is a secret expedition. Ifever 


Fil 


It’s not that I care for money to keep as __ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
you tell of me, I'll tell of you. I'll tell Ma that , 


ou dined at Greenwich.” 

‘¢Well; seriously, my dear,” observed R. W., 
with some trepidation of manner, ‘‘it might be 
as well not to mention it.” 

Aha!” laughed Bella. ‘‘I knew you 
wouldn’t like it, Sir! So you keep my confi- 
dence, and Ill keep yours. But betray the love- 
ly woman, and you shall find her a serpent. 
Now, you may give mea kiss, Pa, and I should 
like to give your hair a turn, because it has been 
dreadfully neglected in my absence.” 

Rk. W. submitted his head to the operator, and 
the operator went on talking; at the same time 
putting separate locks of his hair through a cu- 
rious process of being smartly rolled over her two 
revolving forefingers, which were then suddenly 
pulled out of it in opposite lateral directions. 
On each of these occasions the patient winced 
and winked. 

‘*] have made up my mind that I must have 

money, Pa. I feel that I can’t beg it, borrow 
it, or steal it; and so I have resolved that I 
must marry it.” 
_ RR. W. cast up his eyes toward her, as well as 
he could under the operating circumstances, and 
said in a tone of remonstrance, ‘‘ My de-ar 
Bella!” 

** Have resolved, I say, Pa, that to get money 
I must marry money. In consequence of which, 
I am always looking out for money to captivate.” 

** My de-a-r Bella!” 

“*Yes, Pa, that is. the state of the case. If 
ever there was a mercenary plotter whose 
thoughts and designs were always in her mean 
occupation, I am the amiable creature. But I 
don’t care. I hate and detest being poor, and I 
won't be poor if I can marry money. Now you 
are deliciously fluffy, Pa, and in a state to aston- 
ish the waiter and pay the bill.” 

‘** But, my dear Bella, this is quite alarming at 
your age.” 

- **T told you so, Pa, but you wouldn’t believe 
it,” returned Bella, with a pleasant childish 
gravity. ‘‘Isn’t it shocking ?” 

**Tt would be quite so, if you fully knew what 
you said, my dear, or meant it.” 

“Well, Pa, I can only tell you that I mean 
nothing else. ‘Talk to me of love!” said Bella, 
contemptuously: though her face and figure cer- 
tainly rendered the subject no incongruous one. 
** Talk to me of fiery dragons! But talk to me 
of poverty and wealth, and there indeed we 
touch upon realities.” 

**My De-ar, tllis is becoming Awful—” her 
father was emphatically beginning: when she 
stopped him. 

‘*Pa, tell me. Did you marry money ?” 

# ‘You know I didn’t, my dear,” 

Bella hummed the Dead March in Saul, and 
said, after all it signified very little! But see- 
ing him look grave and downcast, she took him 
round the neck and kissed him back to cheer- 
fulness again. | 

**T didn’t mean that last touch, Pa; it was 
only said in joke. Now mind! You are not to 
tell of me, and I'll not tell of you. And more 
than that; I promise to have no secrets from 
you, Pa, and you may make certain that, what- 


ever mercenary things go on, I shall always tell 


you all about them in strict confidence.” 


147 


the lovely woman, R. W. rang the bell, and paid 
the bill. ‘* Now, all the rest of this, Pa,” said 
Bella, rolling up the purse when they were alone 
again, hammering it small with her little fist on 
the table, and cramming it into one of the pock- 
ets of his new waistcoat, ‘is for you, to buy 
presents with for them at home, and to pay bills 
with, and to divide as you like, and spend ex- 
actly as you think proper. Last of all take no- 
tice, Pa, that it’s not the fruit of any avaricious 
scheme. Perhaps if it was, your little merce- 
nary wretch of a daughter wouldn’t make so free 
with it!” 

After which, she tugged at his coat with both 
hands, and pulled him all askew in buttoning 
that garment over the precious waistcoat pocket, 
and then tied her dimples into her bonnet-strings 
in a very knowing way, and took him back ‘to 
London. Arrived at Mr: Boffin’s door, she set . 
him with his back against it, tenderly took him 
by the ears as convenient handles for her pur- 
pose, and kissed him until he knocked muffled 
double knocks at the door with the back of his 
head. That done, she once more reminded him 
of their compact, and gayly parted from him. 

Not so gayly, however, but that tears filled 
her eyes as he went away down the dark street. 
Not so gayly, but that she several times said, 
‘¢ Ah, poor little Pa! Ah, poor dear struggling 
shabby little Pa!” before she took heart to knock 
at the door. Not so gayly, but that the brilliant 
furniture seemed to sgare her out of countenance 
as if it insisted on being compared with the din- 
gy furniture at home. Not so gayly, but that 
she fell into very low spirits sitting late in her 
own room, and very heartily wept, as she wish- 
ed, now that the deceased old John Harmon had 
never made a will about her, now that the de- 
ceased young John Harmon had lived to marry 
her. ‘Contradictory things to wish,” said Bella; 
‘‘but my life and fortunes are so contradictory 
altogether, that what can I expect myself to be!” 


ene 


CHAPTER IX. 
IN WHICH THE ORPHAN MAKES HIS WILL. 


Tuer Secretary, working in the Dismal Swamp 
betimes next morning, was informed that a youth 
waited in the hall who gave the name of-Sloppy. 
The footman who communicated this intelli- 
gence made a decent pause before uttering the 
name, to ¢xpress that it was forced on his re- 
luctance by the youth in question, and that if 
the youth had had the good sense and good taste 


to inherit some other name it would have spared 


the feclings of him the bearer. 

‘¢ Mrs. Boffin will be very well pleased,” said 
the Secretary in a perfectly composed way. 
*¢ Show him in.” 2 

Mr. Sloppy being introduced, remained close 
to the door: revealing in various parts of his 
form many surprising, confounding, and incom- 
prehensible buttons. 

“‘T am glad to see you,”’ said John Rokesmith, 
in a cheerful tone of welcome. ‘‘I have been 
expecting you.” 

Sloppy explained that he had meant to come 
before, but that the Orphan (of whom he made 
mention as Our Johnny) had been-ailing;-and 


_ Fain to be satisfied with this concession from! he had waited to report him well. 


Dae Cub 


148 


‘‘'Then he is well now?” said the Secretary. 

** No he ain’t,”’ said Sloppy. 

Mr. Sloppy having shaken his head to a con- 
siderable extent, proceeded to remark that he 
thought Johnny ‘“‘ must have took ’em from the 
Minders.” Being asked what he meant, he an- 
swered, them that come out upon him and par- 
tickler his chest. Being requested to explain 
himself, he stated that there was some of ’em 
wot you couldn’t kiver with a sixpence. Press- 
ed to fall back upon a nominative case, he opined 
that they wos about as red as ever red could be. 
** But as long as they strikes out’ards, Sir,” con- 
tinued Sloppy, ‘‘they ain’t so much. It’s their 
striking in’ards that’s to be kep off.” 

John Rokesmith hoped the child had had med- 
ical attendance? Oh yes, said Sloppy, he had 
been took to the doctor’s shop once. And what 
did the doctor call it? Rokesmith asked him. 
After some perplexed reflection, Sloppy answer- 
ed, brightening, ‘‘ He called it something as wos 
wery long for spots.” Rokesmith suggested mea- 
sles. ‘‘ No,’ said Sloppy, with confidence, ‘‘ ever 
so much longer than them, Sir!” (Mr. Sloppy 
was elevated by this fact, and seemed to consid- 
er that it reflected credit on the poor little pa- 
tient.) 

‘¢Mrs. Boffin will be sorry to hear this,” said 
Rokesmith. 

“*Mrs. Higden said so, Sir, when she kep it 
from her, hoping as Our Johnny would work 
round.” . 

**But I hope he will!” said Rokesmith, with 
@ quick turn upon the messenger. 

‘*T hope so,” answered Sloppy. ‘It all de- 
pends on their striking in’ards.”” He then went 
on to say that whether Johnny had ‘‘ took ’em” 
from the Minders, or whether the Minders had 
“took ’em” from Johnny, the Minders had been 
sent home and had ‘‘ got ’em.” Furthermore, 
that Mrs. Higden’s days and nights being devot- 
ed to Our Johnny, who was never out of her lap, 
the whole of the mangling arrangements had 
devolved upon himself, and he had had ‘ray- 
ther a tight time.” The ungainly piece of hon- 
esty beamed and blushed as he said it, quite en- 
raptured with the remembrance of having been 
Berviceable. 

“Last night,% said Sloppy, ‘‘when I was 
a-turning at the wheel pretty late, the mangle 
seemed to go like Our Johnny’s breathing. It 
begun beautiful, then as it went out it shook a 
little and got unsteady, then as it took the turn 
to come home it had a rattle-like and lumbered 
a bit, then it come smooth, and so it went on till 
I scarce know’d which was mangle and which 
was Our Johnny. Nor-Our Johnny, he scarce 
know’d either, for sometimes when the mangle 
lumbers he says, ‘Me choking, Granny !* and 
Mrs. Higden holds him up in her lap and says 
to me, ‘ Bide a bit, Sloppy,’ and we all stops to- 
gether. And when our Johnny gets his breath- 
ing again, I turns again, and we all goes on to- 
gether.” 

Sloppy had gradually expanded with his de- 
scription into a stare and a vacant grin. He 
now contracted, being silent, into a _half-re- 
pressed gush of tears, and, under pretense of 
being heated, drew the under part of his sleeve 
across his eyes with a singularly awkward, la- 
borious, and roundabout smear. 


“ This is unfortunate,” said Rokesmith. ‘‘I 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


must go and break it to Mrs. Boffin. 
here, Sloppy.” 


Sloppy staid there, staring at the pattern of a 


the paper on the wall, until the Secretary and 
Mrs. Boftin came back together. And with Mrs. 


Bofttin was a young lady (Miss Bella Wilfer by a 


name) who was better worth staring at, it oc- 
curred to Sloppy, than the best of wall-papering. 

‘* Ah, my poor dear pretty little John Har- 
mon!” exclaimed Mrs. .Boffin. 

‘Yes, mum,” said the sympathetic Sloppy. 

“You don’t think he is in a very, very bad 
way, do you?” asked the pleasant creature with 
her wholesome cordiality. 

Put upon his good faith, and finding it in col- 
lision with his inclinations, Sloppy threw back , 
his head and uttered a mellifluous howl, round- 
ed off with a sniff. 

“So bad as that!” cried Mrs. Boffin. ‘‘ And 
Betty Higden not to tell me of it sooner!” 

“‘T think she might have been mistrustful, 
mum,’ answered Sloppy, hesitating. 

“ Of what, for Heaven’s sake ?” 

“T think she might have been mistrustful, 
mum,” returned’ Sloppy, with submission, ‘ of 
standing in Our Johnny’s light. There’s so 
much trouble in illness, and so much expense, 
and she’s seen such a lot of its being objected 
to. 7 

‘* But she never can have thought,” said Mrs,’ _ 


Boffin, ‘‘ that I would grudge the dear child anys 


thing ¢ 2 

‘*No, mum, but she might have thought (as 
a habit-like) of its standing in Johnny’s light, - 
and might have tried to bring him through it 
unbeknownst.” 

Sloppy knew his ground well. 
herself in sickness, like a lower animal; to creep 
out of sight and coil herself away and die, had 
become this woman’s instinct. To catch up in 
her arms the sick child who was dear to her, and 
hide it as if it were a cfiminal, and keep cff all 
ministration but such as her own ignorant ten- 
derness and patience could supply, had become 
this woman’s idca of maternal love, fidelity, and 
duty. The shameful accounts we read, every 
week in the Christian year, my lords and gen- 
tlemen and honorable boards, the infamous rec- 

ords of small official inhumanity, do not pass by 
the people as they pass by us. And hence these 
irrational, blind, and obstinate prejudices, so as- 
tonishing to our magnificence, and having no 
more reason in them—God save the Queen and 
Con-found their politics—no, than smoke has in 
coming from fire! 

*¢ It’s not a right place for the poor child to 
stay in,’ said Mrs. Boffin.. ‘*Tell us, dear Mr. 
Rokesmith, what to do for the best.” 

He had already thought what to’ do, and the 
consultation was very short. He could pave the 
way, he said, in half an hour, and then they 
would go down to Brentford. ‘Pray take me,’ 
said Bella. Therefore a carriage was or dered, 
of capacity to take them all, and in the mean 
time Sloppy was regaled, feasting alone in the 
Secretary’s room, with a complete realization of 
that fairy vision--meat, beer, vegetables, and 
pudding. In consequence of which his buttons 
became more importunate of public notice than 


before, with the exception of two or three about 


the region of the waistband, which modestly 
withdrew into a creasy forement. iy 


PLAN S11 Bt a Re ae aye Teen ROU (bi MRAM 


“To conceal © 


Stay you q 


\ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


149 
2 
# Mn 
5 ine aver 
E ae 
4 Wy ia He 
La , 
HUE ete 
i ; 
EY gf 


Punctual to the time appeared the carriage Guards might never have found him out. Bear. 


and the Secretary. He sat on the box, and Mr. 
Sloppy graced the rumble. 
Magpies as before: where Mrs. Boffin and Miss 
Bella were handed out, and whence they all went 
on foot to Mrs. Betty Higden’s. 

But, on the way down, they had. stopped at 
toy-shop, and had bought that noble charger, 
description of whose points and trappings had on 
the last occasion conciliated the then worldly- 
minded orphan, and also a Noah’s ark, and also 


a 


a yellow bird with an artificial voice in him, and 
also a military doll so well dresse 


So, to the Three | 


a | 


ing these gifts, they raised the latch of Betty 
Higden’s door, and saw her sitting in the dim- 
mest and furthest corner with poor Johnny in 
her lap. 

**And how’s my boy, Betty?” asked Mrs. 
Boffin, sitting down beside her. 

‘*He’s bad! he’s bad!” said Betty. ‘‘I be- 
gin to be afeerd he’ll not be yours any more than 
mine. All others belonging to him have gone 
to the Power and the Glory, and I have a mind 
that they’re drawing him to them—leading him 


d that if he had , away.” 


_ only been of life-size his brother officers in the _** No, no, no,” said Mrs. Boffin. 


. i 
« 
es 


, q qaete = J 
E> 4 oe ee 


150 


‘¢T don’t know why else he clenches his little 
hand as if it had hold of a finger that I can’t 
see. Look at it,” said Betty, opening the wrap- 
pers in which the flushed child lay, and showing 
his small right hand lying closed upon his breast. 
“¢Tt’s always so. It don’t mind me.” 

“Ts he asleep ?” 

‘*No, I think not, 
_ Johnny ?” 

“‘No,” said Johnny, with a quiet air of pity 
for himself, and without opening his eyes. 

“¢ Were’s the lady, Johnny. And the horse.” 

Johnny could bear the lady with complete in- 
difference, but not the horse, Opening his heavy 
eyes, he slowly broke into a smile on beholding 
that splendid phenomenon, and wanted to take 
it in his arms. <As it was much too big, it was 
put upon a chair where he could hold it by the 
mane and contemplate it. Which he soon for- 
got to do. 

But, Johnny murmuring something with his 
eyes closed, and Mrs. Bofiin not knowing what, 
old Betty bent her ear to listen, and took pains 
to understand. Being asked by her to repeat 
what he had said, he did so two or three times, 
and then it came out that he must have seen 
more than they supposed when he looked up to 
see the horse, for the murmur was, ‘‘ Who is 
the boofer lady?” Now, the boofer, or beauti- 
ful, lady was Bella; and whereas this notice 
from the poor baby would have touched her of 
itself, it was rendered more pathetic by the late 
melting of her heart to her poor little father, 
and their joke about the lovely woman. So, 
Bella’s behavior was very tender and very natu- 
ral when she kneeled on the brick floor to clasp 
the child, and when the child, with a child’s ad- 
miration of what is young and pretty, fondled 
the boofer lady. 

“‘ Now, my good dear Betty,” said Mrs. Bof- 
fin, hoping that she saw her opportunity, and 
laying her hand persuasively on her arm; “ we 
have come to remove Johnny from this cottage 
to where he can be taken better care of.” 

Instantly, and before another word could be 
spoken, the old woman started up with blazing 
eyes, and rushed at the door with the sick 
child. 

‘* Stand away from me every one of ye!’ she 
cried out wildly. ‘‘I see what ye mean now. 
Let me go my way, all of ye. I'd sooner kill 
the Pretty, and kill myself!” 

«Stay, stay!” said Rokesmith, soothing her. 
“You don’t understand.” 

*““T understand too well. 
about it, Sir. Pve run from it too many a year. 
No! Never for me, nor for the child, while 
there’s water enough in England to cover us!” 

The terror, the shame, the passion of horror 
and repugnance, firing the worn face and per- 
fectly maddening it, would have been a quite 
terrible sight, if embodied in one old fellow- 
creature alone. Yet it ‘‘crops up” —as our 
slang goes—my lords and gentlemen and hon- 
orable boards, in other fellow-creatures, rather 
frequently ! 

‘* It’s been chasing me all my life, but it shall 
never take me nor mine alive!” cried old Betty. 
**T’ve done with ye. I'd have fastened door and 
window and starved out, afore I’d ever have let 
ye in, if I had known what ye came for!” 

But, catching sight of Mrs. Boffin’s whole- 


You’re not asleep, my 


I know too much 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 


‘ 


some face, she relented, and crouching down — 
by the door and bending over her burden to hush 
it, said humbly: ‘*‘ Maybe my fears has put me | 
wrong. If they have so, tell me, and the good: | 
Lord torgiveme! I’m quick to take this fright, 
I know, and my head is summ/’at light with — 
wearying and watching.” 7 

‘“’There, there, there!’ returned Mrs. Bof- 
fin. ‘*Come, come! Say no more of it, Bet- 
ty. It was a mistake—a mistake. Any one of 
us might have made it in your place, and felt 
just as you do,” 

‘¢'The Lord bless ye!” said the old woman, 
stretching out her hand, | 
‘* Now, see, Betty,” pursued the sweet com- 
passionate soul, holding the hand kindly, ** what 
I really did mean, and what I should have be- 
gun by saying out, if I had only been a little 
wiser and handier. We want to move Johnny 


to a place where there are none but children; a ~~ 


place set up on purpose for sick children; where 
the good doctors and nurses pass their lives with 
children, talk to none but children, touch none — 
but children, comfort and cure none but chil- — 
dren.” ~ a 

‘¢Ts there really such a place?” asked the old — 
woman, with a gaze of wonder. 

‘Yes, Betty, on my word, and you shall see 
it. If my home was a better place for the dear 
boy I'd take him to it; but indeed indeed it’s 
not.” 

‘*You shall take him,” returned Betty, fer- 
vently kissing the comforting hand, ‘* where you 
will, my deary. I am not so hard but that I 
believe your face and voice, and I will, as long 
as I can see and hear,” 

This victory gained, Rokesmith made haste 
to profit by it, for he saw how woefully time had 
been lost. He dispatched Sloppy to bring the 
carriage to the door; caused the child to be 
carefully wrapped up; bade old Betty get her 
bonnet on; collected the toys, enabling the lit- 
tle fellow to comprehend that his treasures were 
to be transported with him; and had all things 
prepared so easily that they were ready for the 
carriage as soon as it appeared, and in a minute 
afterward were on their way. Sloppy they left 
behind, relieving his overcharged breast with a 
paroxysm of mangling. 

At the Children’s Hospital the gallant steed, — 
the Noah’s ark, the yellow bird, and the officer ~ 
in the Guards, were made as welcome as their — 
child-owner. But the doctor said aside to Roke- 
smith, ‘‘This should have been days ago. Too 
late!” | 
However, they were all carried up into a fresh 
airy room, and there Johnny came to himself, 
out of a sleep or a swoon or whatever it was, 
to find himself lying in a little quiet bed, with a 
little platform over his breast, on which were 
already arranged, to give him heart and urge 
him to cheer up, the Noah’s ark, the noble steed, 
and the yellow bird; with the officer in the 
Guards doing duty over the whole, quite as much 
to the satisfaction of his country as if he had _ 
been upon Parade. And at the bed’s head was — 
a colored picture beautiful to see, representing — 
as it were another Johnny seated on the knee 
of some Angel surely who loved little children, — 
And, marvelous fact, to lie and stare at; John-— 
ny had become one of a little family, all in little 
quiet beds (except two playing dominoes in little © 


4 
iy 


-arm-chairs at a little table on the hearth): and 
on all the little beds were little platforms where- 
on were to be seen dolls’ houses, woolly dogs 
with mechanical barks in them not very dis- 
similar from the artificial voice pervading the 
bowels of the yellow bird, tin armies, Moorish 
tumblers, wooden tea-things, and the riches of 
the earth. 

- As Johnny murmured something in his placid 
admiration, the ministering women at his bed’s 
head asked him what he said. It seemed that 


he wanted to know whether all these were broth- | 


ers and sisters of his? So they told him yes. 
It seemed then that he wanted to know whether 
God had brought them all together there? So 
they told him yes again. ‘They made out then 
that he wanted to know whether they would all 
get out of pain? So they answered yes to that 
question likewise, and made him understand 
that the reply included himself, 


Johnny’s powers of sustaining conversation | 


were as yet so very imperfectly developed, even 
in a state of health, that in sickness they were 
little more than monosyllabic. But he had to 
be washed and tended, and: remedies were ap- 
plied, and though those offices were far, far more 
skillfully and lightly done than ever any thing 
had been done for him in his little life, so rough 
and short, they would have hurt and tired him 
but for an amazing circumstance which laid hold 
of his attention. This was no less than the ap- 


pearance on his own little platform in pairs, of 
All Creation, on its way into his own particular | 


ark: the elephant leading, and the fly, with a 


diffident sense of its size, politely bringing up the | 
A very little brother lying in the next | 


rear, 
bed with a broken leg, was so enchanted by this 
spectacle that his delight exalted its enthralling 
interest; and so came rest and sleep, 
‘*I see you are not afraid to leave the dear 
child here, Betty,” whispered Mrs, Boffin. 
‘No, ma’am. Most willingly, most thank- 
fully, with all my heart and soul.” 
So they kissed him, and left him there, and 
_ old Betty was to come back early in the morning, 
and nobody but Rokesmith knew for certain how 
that the doctor had said ‘“ This should have been 
days ago. Too late!” 


But, Rokesmith knowing it, and knowing that | 
__ his bearing it in mind would be acceptable there- | 
after to that good woman who had been the only | 


light in the childhood of desolate John Harmon 
dead and gone, resolved that late at night he 


would go back to the bedside of John Harmon’s - 


namesake, and see how it fared with him. 

The family whom God had brought together 
were not all asleep, but were all quiet. From 
- bed to bed a light womanly tread and a pleas- 
ant fresh face passed in the silence of the night. 


A little head would lift itself up into the soft- | 


ened light here and there, to be kissed as the face 
went by—for these little patients are very loving 
—and would then submit itself to be composed 
fo rest again. The mite with the broken leg 
was restless, and moaned; but after a while 
_ turned his face toward Johnny’s bed, to fortify 
_ himself with a view of the ark, and fell asleep: 
_ Over most of the beds the toys were yet grouped 
_ as the children had left them when they last laid 

themselves down, and, in their innocent gTo- 

tesqueness and incongruity, they might» have 
_ stood for the children’s dreams. 


‘oa _ OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


151 


' The doctor came in too, to see how it fared 
with Johnny. * And he and Rokesmith stood to. 
gether, looking down with compassion on him. 

| **Whrat‘is it, Johnny?” Rokesmith was the 
questioner, and put an arm round the poor baby 
as he made a struggle. 

‘‘ Him!” said the little fellow. *Those 1” 

The doctor was quick to understand children, 
and, taking the horse, the ark, the yellow bird, 
and the man in the Guards, from Johnny’s bed, 
softly placed them on that of his next neighbor, 
the mite with the broken leg. 

With a weary and yet a pleased smile, and 
with an action as if he stretched his little finger 
out to rest, the child heaved his body on the sus- 
taining arm, and seeking Rokesmith’s face with 
his lips, said: 

‘* A kiss for the boofer lady.” 

Having now bequeathed all he had to dispose 
of, and arranged his affairs in this world, John- 
ny, thus speaking, left it. 


= 


CHAPTER X. 
A SUCCESSOR. 


Some of the Reverend Frank Milvey’s breth- 
ren had found themselves exceedingly uncom- 
fortable in their minds, because they were re- 
quired to bury the dead too hopefully. But the 
Reverend Frank, inclining to the belief that they 
were required to do one or two other things (say 
out of nine-and-thirty) calculated to trouble their 
consciences rather more if they would think as 
much about them, held his peace. 

Indeed, the Reverend Frank Milvey was a for- 
_bearing man, who noticed many sad warps and 
blights in the vineyard wherein he worked, and 
did not profess that they made him savagely 
wise. He only learned that the more he him- 
self knew, in his little limited human way, the 
better he could distantly imagine what Omnis- 
| clence might know. 

Wherefore, if the Reverend Frank had had to 
read the words that troubled some of his breth- 
ren, and profitably touched innumerable hearts 
'in a worse case than Johnny’s, he would have 
done so out of the pity and humility of his soul. 
Reading them over Johnny, he thought of his 
own six children, but not of his poverty, and 
read them with dimmed eyes. And very seri- 

ously did he and his bright little wife, who had 
been listening, look down into the small grave 
| and walk home arm-in-arm. 
| There was grief in the aristocratic house, and 
there was joy in the Bower, Mr. Wegg argued, 
if an orphan were wanted, was he not an orphan 
himself, and could a better be desired? And 
why go beating about Brentford bushes, seeking 
orphans forsooth who had established no claims 
upon you and made no sacrifices for you, when 
here was an orphan ready to your hand who had 
given up in your cause Miss Elizabeth, Master 
George, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Parker ? i 
| Mr. Wegg chuckled, consequently, when he 
heard the tidings. Nay, it was afterward affirm- 
ed by a witness who shall at present be nameless, 
that in the seclusion of the Bower he poked out 
his wooden leg, in the stage-ballet manner, and 
executed a taunting or triumphant pirouette on 
| the genuine leg remaining to him. 


152 ° 


John Rokesmith’s manner toward Mrs. Boffin 
at this time was more the manner of a young 
man toward a mother than that of a Secretary 
toward his employer’s wife. It had always been 
marked by a subdued affectionate deference that 
seemed to have sprung up on the very day of his 
engagement ; whatever was odd in her dress or 
her ways had seemed to have no oddity for him; 
he had sometimes borne a quietly-amused face in 
her company, but still it had seemed as if the 
pleasure her genial temper and radiant nature 
yielded him could have been quite as naturally 
expressed in atear asin a smile. ‘The complete- 
ness of his sympathy with her fancy for having 
a little John Harmon to protect and rear, he had 
shown in every act and word, and now that the 
kind fancy was disappointed, he treated it with 
a manly tenderness and respect for which she 
could hardly thank him enough. 

“But I do thank you, Mr. Rokesmith,” said 
Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘and [thank you most kindly. You 
love children.” 

‘¢T hope every body. does.” 

“They ought,” said Mrs. Boffin; ‘‘but we don’t 
all of us do what we ought; do us?” 

John Rokesmith replied, ‘‘Some among us 
supply the shortcomings of the rest. You have 
loved children well, Mr. Boffin has told me.” 

‘¢Not a bit better than he has, but that’s his 
way; he putsallthe good uponme. You speak 
rather sadly, Mr. Rokesmith.” 

Do 1? 

“Tt sounds to me so. Were you one of many 
children ?” 

He shook his head. 

“¢ An only child?” 

‘*No, there was another. Dead long ago.” 

‘¢ Father or mother alive ?” 

“Dead.” 

‘* And the rest of your relations?” 

‘¢ead—if I ever had any living. 
. heard of any.” 

At this point of the dialogue Bella came in 
with a light step. She paused at the door a mo- 
ment, hesitating whether to remain or retire: 
perplexed by finding that she was not ob- 
served. 

‘*Now, don’t mind an old lady’s talk,” said 
Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘ but tell me. Are you quite sure, 
Mr. Rokesmith, that you have never had a dis- 
appointment in love?” 

‘¢Quite sure. Why do you ask me?” 

‘* Why, for this reason. Sometimes you have 
a kind of kept-down manner with you, which is 
not like your age. You can’t be thirty ?” 

‘¢T am not yet thirty.” | 

Deeming it high time to make her presence 
known, Bella coughed here to attract attention, 
begged pardon, and said she would go, fearing 
that she interrupted some matter of business. 

‘No, don’t go,” rejoined Mrs. Boftin, ‘‘ be- 
cause we are coming to business, instead of hav- 
ing begun it, and you belong to it as much now, 
my dear Bella, as I do. But I want my Noddy 
to consult with us. Would somebody be so good 
as find my Noddy for me?” 

Rokesmith departed on that errand, and pres- 
ently returned accompanied by Mr. Boffin at his 
jog-trot. Bella felt a little vague trepidation as 
to the subject-matter of this same consultation, 
until Mrs. Boffin announced it. | 

*¢ Now, you come and sit by me, my dear,” 


N 


I never 


ry y WS eit) 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
said that worthy soul, taking her comfortable a 


place on a large ottoman in the centre of the 


room, and drawing her arm through Bella’s; 


‘¢and Noddy, you sit here, and Mr. Rokesmith 
you sit there. Now, you see, what I want to 
talk about, is this. Mr. and Mrs. Milvey have 
sent me the kindest note possible (which Mr, 
Rokesmith just now read to me out loud, for I 
ain’t good at handwritings), offering to find me 
another little child to name and educate and 
bring up. Well. This has set me thinking.” 

(‘* And she is a steam-ingein at it,” murmured 
Mr. Boffin, in an admiring parenthesis, “ when 
she once begins. It mayn’t be so easy to start 
her ; but once started, she’s a ingein.’’) 

‘«¢__This has set me thinking, I say,” repeated 
Mrs. Boffin, cordially beaming under the influ. 
ence of her husband’s compliment, ‘‘ and I have 
thought two things. First of all, that I have 
grown timid of reviving John Harmon’s name. 
It’s an unfortunate name, and I fancy I should 
reproach myself if I gave it to another dear 
child, and it proved again unlucky.) ~ 

‘¢ Now, whether,” said Mr. Boffin, gravely pro- 
pounding a case for his Secretary's opinion 5 
‘¢ whether one might call that a superstition ?” 

‘Tt is a matter of feeling with Mrs. Boffin,” 
said Rokesmith, gently. ‘‘The name has always 
been unfortunate. It has now this new unfor- 
tunate association connected with it. The name 
has died out. Why revive it? Might I ask Miss 
Wilfer what she thinks ?” 

“Tt has not been a fortunate name for me,” 
said Bella,.coloring—‘‘or at least it was not, 


until it led to my being here—but that is not the. 


point in my thoughts. As we had given the 


name to the poor child, and as the poor child ~~ 


took so lovingly to me, I think I should feel 
jealous of calling another child by it. I think I 
should feel as if the name had become en eared 
to me, and [ had no right. to use it so.” 

“ And that’s your opinion?” remarked Mr, 
Boffin, observant of the Secretary’s face, and 
again addressing him. . 

‘¢*T say again, it is a matter of feeling,” re- 
turned the Secretary. 
feeling very womanly and pretty.” 

‘Now, give us your opinion, Noddy,” said 
Mrs. Boflin. 

*¢ My opinion, old lady,’ 
Dustman, ‘‘is your opinion.” 

‘¢Then,” said Mrs. Boffin, “‘we agree not to 


revive John Harmon’s name, but to let it rest in. 


the grave. It is, as Mr, Rokesmith says, a mat- 
ter of feeling, but Lor how many matters are 
matters of feeling! Well; and so I come to the 
second thing I have thought of. You must 
know, Bella, my dear, and Mr. Rokesmith, that 
when I first named to my husband my thoughts 
of adopting a little orphan boy in remembrance 
of John Harmon, I further named’ to my hus; 
band that it was comforting to think that how 
the poor boy would be benefited by John’s own 
money, and protected from John’s own forlorn- 
ness.”’ 

‘¢ Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Boffin. ‘So she did. 


Ancoar !” 


‘¢No, not Ancoar, Noddy, my dear,” returned 
Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘ because I am going to say somes ~ 


thing else. I meant that, I am sure, as much 
as I still mean it. But this little death has mad 


me ask myself the question, seriously, whether I | 


‘*T think Miss Wilfer’s 


> returned the Golden 


= 


Ses 


ee 


= 


Se as ax 


OUR. MUTUAL FRIEND. 


wasn’t too bent upon pleasing myself. Else why 
did I seek out so much for a pretty child, and a 
child quite to my liking ? Wanting to do good, 
why not do it for its own sake, and put my 
tastes and likings by ?” 
**Perhaps,” said Bella; and perhaps she said 


it with some little sensitiveness arising out of | 


_ those old curious relations of hers toward the 
murdered man; ‘‘ perhaps, in reviving the name, 
you would not have liked to give it to a less in- 
teresting child than the original. He interested 
you very much.” 

** Well, my dear,” returned Mrs. Boffin, giv- 
ing her a squeeze, ‘‘it’s kind of you to find that 
reason out, and I hope it may have been so, and 
indeed to a certain extent I believe it was SO, 
but I am afraid not to the whole extent. - How. 
ever, that don’t come in question now, because 
we have done with the name.” 

**Laid it up as a remembrance,” 
‘Bella, musingly. 

‘*Much better said, my dear; laid it up as a 
remembrance. Well then: I have been think. 
ing if I take any orphan to provide for, let it not 
be a pet and a plaything for me, but a creature 
to be helped for its own sake.” 

“* Not pretty then?” said Bella. 

“No,” returned Mrs. Boffin, stoutly. 

** Nor prepossessing then ?” said Bella. 

“No,” returned Mrs. Boftin.” ‘Not necessa- 
rily so. That’s as it may happen. <A well-dis- 
posed boy comes in my way who may be even a 
little wanting in such advantages for getting on 
in life, but is honest and industrious and requires 
a helping hand and deserves it. If I am very 
much in earnest and quite determined to be un- 
selfish, let me take care of him.” 

Here the footman whose feelings had been 
hurt on the former occasion appeared, and cross- 
ang to Rokesmith a 
objectionable Sloppy. 

The four members of Council looked at one 
another, and paused. ‘Shall he be brought 
‘here, ma’am ?” asked Rokesmith. 

_ * Yes,” said Mrs. Boffin. Whereupon the foot- 
man disappeared, reappeared presenting Sloppy, 

and retired much disgusted. 

The consideration of Mrs. Boffin had clothed 
Mr. Sloppy in a suit of black, on which the tailor 
had received personal directions from Rokesmith 
to expend the utmost cunning of his art, with a 


suggested 


view to the concealment of the cohering and sus- 


taining buttons. But, so much more powerful 


were the frailties of Sloppy’s form than the | 


strongest resources of tailoring science, that he 
_ how stood before the Council a perfect Argus in 
the way of buttons: shining and winking and 
gleaming and twinkling out of a hundred of 
those eyes of bright metal, at the dazzled spec- 
tators. The artistic taste of some unknown hat. 
ter had furnished him with a hat-band of whole- 
Sale capacity, which was fluted behind, from the 
¢€rown of his hat to the brim, and terminated 


pologetically announced the | 


‘158 


his coat, and a yawning gulf at his waistband, 


Sloppy stood confessed. 

** And how is Betty, my good fellow?” Mrs, 
Boffin asked him. ' 

*“Thankee, mum,” said Sloppy, “ 
ty nicely, and sending her dooty and 
for the tea and all faviors, and wis] 
the family’s healths.” 

‘* Have you just come, 

‘* Yes, mum.” ‘ 

**Then you have not had your dinner yet ?” 

‘“‘No, mum. But I mean to it, For I ain’t 
forgotten your handsome orders that I was never 
to go away without having had_a good ‘un off of 
meat and beer and pndding—no: there was four 
of ’em, for I reckoned ‘em up when I had ’em; 
meat one, beer two, vegetables three, and which 
was four ?=Why, pudding, he was four!” Here 
Sloppy threw his head back, opened his mouth 
wide, and laughed rapturously. 

‘How are’ the two poor little Minders ¢” 
asked Mrs. Boffin. 

“ Striking right out, mum, and coming round 
beautiful.’ 

Mrs. Boffin looked on the other three members 
of Council, and then said, beckoning with her 
finger: 

‘* Sloppy.” 

‘Yes, mum. 

‘Come forward, Sloppy. 
dine here every day ?” 

‘OFF of all four on ‘em, mum ? 
Sloppy’s feelings obliged him to squ 
and contract one leg at the knee. 

‘Yes. And should you like to ba always 
taken care of here, if you were industrious and 
deserving ?” 

“Oh, mum !—But there’ 
Sloppy, checking himself in his raptures, draw- 
ing back, and shaking his head with very serious 
meaning. ‘‘There’s Mrs. Higden. Mrs. Hig- 
den goes before all. None can ever be better 
friends to me than Mrs. Higden’s been. And 
she must be turned for, must Mrs. Higden. 
Where would Mrs. Higden be if she warn’t 
turned for!” At the mere thought of Mrs. Hig. 
den in this inconceivable affliction, Mr. Sloppy’s. 
countenance became pale, and manifested the 
most distressful emotions. 

‘You are as right as ri 
said Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘ and far be it from me to tell 
you otherwise. It shall be seen to. If Betty 
Higden can be turned for all the same, you shall 
come here and be taken care of for life, and be 
made able to keep her in other ways than the 
turning.” 

‘‘ Even as to that, mum,” answered the ec- 
statie Sloppy, ‘‘ the turning might be done in the 
night, don’t you see? I could be-here in the 
day, and turn in the night. I don’t want no 
sleep, J don’t. Or even if I any ways should 
want a wink or two,” added Sloppy, after a mo- 
ment’s apologetic reflection, ‘“‘I could take ’em 


she do pret- 
many thanks 
ling to know 


Sloppy ot 


Should you like to 


Oh, mum!” 
eeZe his hat, 


s Mrs. Higden,” said 


ght can be, Sloppy,” 


i 
! 


in a black bunch, from which the imagination 
shrunk discomfited and the reason revolted. 
Some special powers with which his legs were 
endowed had already hitched up his glossy trow- 
sers at the ankles and bagged them at the knees : 
while similar gifts in his arms had raised his 
Coat-sleeves from his wrists and accumulated 
them at his elbows. Thus set forth, with the 
additional embellishments of a very little tail to! 
10 


turning. T’ve took ’em turning many a time, 
and enjoyed ’em wonderful !” 

On the grateful impulse of the moment Mr.. 
Sloppy kissed Mrs. Boffin’s hand, and then de- 
taching himself from that good creature that he 
might have room enough for his feelings, threw 
back his head, opened his mouth wide, and ut- 
tered a dismal howl. It was ereditable t® his. 
tenderness of heart, but sugyested that he might 


4 


154 


on occasion give some offense to the neighbors: | der the head ‘‘this,” present appearances and 


the rather, as the footmau Jooked in, and begged 
pardon, finding he. was not wanted, but excused 
himself, on the ground “that he thought it was 
Cats.” 

——__@———_—. 


CHAPTER XI. 
SOME AFFAIRS OF THE HEART. 


Litrte Miss Peecher, from her little official 
dwelling-house, with its little windows like the 
eyes in needles, and its little doors like the coyv- 
ers of school-books, was very observant indeed 
of the object of her quiet affections. Love, 
though said to be afflicted with blindness, is a 
vigilant watchman, and Miss Peecher kept him 
on double duty over Mr. Bradley Headstone. 
It was not that she was naturally given to play- 
ing the spy—it was not that she was at all se- 
cret, plotting, or mean—it was simply that she 
loved the irresponsive Bradley with all the primi- 
tive and homely stock of love that had never 
been examined or certificated out of her. IPfher 
faithful slate had had the latent qualities of sym- 
pathetic paper, and its pencil those of invisible 
ink, many a little treatise calculated to astonish 
the pupils would have come bursting through 
the dry sums in school-time under the warming 
influence of Miss Peecher’s bosom. For, often- 
times when school was not, and her calm leisure 
and calm little house were her own, Miss Peecher 
would commit to the confidential slate an im- 
aginary description of how, upon a balmy even- 
ing at dusk, two figures might. have been» ob- 
served in the market-garden ground-round the 


corner, of whom one, being a manly form; bent | 


over the other, being a womanly form of short 
stature and some compactness, and breathed in 
a low voice the words, ‘‘ Emma Peecher, wilt 
thou be my own?” after which the womanly 
form’s head reposed upon the manly form’s shoul- 
der, and the nightingales tuned up. Thongh 
all unseen, and unsuspected by the pupils, Brad- 
ley Headstone even pervaded the school exer- 
cises. Was Geography in question? He would 
come triumphantly flying out of Vesuvius and 
JEtna ahead of the lava, and would boil un- 
harmed in the hot springs of Iceland, and would 
float majestically down the Ganges and the Nile. 
Vid History chronicle a king of men? Behold 
him in pepper-and-salt pantaloons, with his 
watch-guard round his neck. Were copies to 
b2 written? In capital B’s and H’s most of the 
girls under Miss Peecher’s tuition were half a 
year ahead of every other letter in the alphabet. 
And Mental Arithmetic, administered by Miss 
Peecher, often devoted itself to providing Brad- 
Jey Headstone with a wardrobe of fabulous ex- 
tent: fourscore and four neck-ties at two and 
nin ‘pence-halfpenny, two gross of silver watches 
at four pounds fifteen and sixpencs, seventy-four 
black hats at eighteen shillings; and many simi- 
lar superfluities. : 

The vigilant watchman, using his daily oppor- 
tunities of turning his eyes in Bradlev’s direction, 
soon apprised Miss Peecher that Bradley was 
more preoccupied than had been his wont, and 
more given to strolling about with a downcast 
an | reserved face, turning something difficult in 
his mind that was not in the scholastic syllabus. 
Paiing this and that toge!her—combining un- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


the intimacy with Charley Hexam, and ranging 
under the head * that” the visit to his sister, the 
watchman .reported to Miss Peecher his strong 
suspicions that the sister was at the bottom of | 
it. ‘ 

‘‘T wonder,” said Miss Peecher, as she sat — 
making up her weekly report on a half-holiday 
afternoon, ‘* what they call Hexam’s sister ?” 

Mary Anne, at her needle-work, attendant and 
attentive, held her arm up. 

‘¢ Well, Mary Anne?” 

‘¢She is named Lizzie, ma’am.” 

‘‘She can hardly be named Lizzie, I think, 
Mary Anne,” returned Miss Peecher, in a tunes 
fully instructive voice, ‘‘Is Lizzie a Christian’ 
name, Mary Anne?” 

Mary Anne laid down her work, rose, hooked 
herself behind, as being under catechisation, and 
replied: ‘No, it is a corruption, Miss Peecher.” 

‘Who gave her that name?” Miss Peecher 
was going on, from the mere force of habit, when 
she checked herself, on Mary Anne’s evincing 
theological impatience to strike in with her god- 
fathers and her godmothers, and said: ‘*I mean 
of what name is it a corruption ?” 

‘‘ Elizabeth, or Eliza, Miss Peecher.” 

‘‘Right, Mary Anne. Whether there were 
any Lizzies in the early Christian Church must 
be considered very doubtful, very doubtful.” Miss 
Peecher was exceedingly sage here. ‘‘Speak-— 
ing correctly, we say, then, that Hexam’s sister ’ 
is called Lizzie; not that she is named so. Do 
we not, Mary Anne?” 

‘We do, Miss Peecher.” 

‘‘ And where,” pursued Miss Peecher, com- 
placent in her little transparent fiction of con- 
ducting the examination in a semi-official man-_ 
ner for Mary Anne’s benefit, not her own, 
‘“‘where does this young woman, who is called 
bat not named Lizzie, live? Think, now, be- 
fore answering.” 

‘‘In Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill 
Bank, ma’am.” 

‘*In Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill 
Bank,” repeated Miss Peecher, as if possessed 
beforchand of the book in which it was written. 
‘Exactly so. And what occupation does this 
young woman pursue, Mary Anne? Take time.” 

‘¢She has a place of trust at an outfitter’s in _ 
the City, ma’am.” 

‘Oh !” said Miss Peecher, pondering on it; 
but smoothly added, in a confirmatory tone, — 
‘¢ At an outfitter’s in the City. Ye-es?” 

‘¢ And Charley—” Mary Ann was proceeding 
when Miss Peecher stared. : . | 

‘¢T mean Hexam, Miss Peecher.”’ 

“T should think you did, Mary Anne, 
glad to hear you do. And Hexam—?” 

‘‘ Says,’’? Mary Anne went on, ‘‘that he isnot — 
pleased with his sister, and that his sister won’t— 
be guided by his advice, and persists in being — 
guided by somebody else’s; and that—” 

‘‘Mr. Headstone coming across the garden!” — 
exclaimed Miss Peecher, with a flushed glance— 
at the looking-glass, ‘‘ You have answered very — 
well, Mary Anne. You are forming an excel- 
lent habit of arranging your thoughts clearly. 
That will do.” | 

The discreet Mary Anne resumed her seat and — 
her silence, and stitched, and stitched, and was — 
stitching when the schoolmaster’s shadow came 


I ant 


in before him, announcing that he might be in- 
stantly expected. 


**Good-evening, Miss Peecher,” he said, pur- | ried face. 


suing the shadow, and taking its place. 
_**Good-evening, Mr. Headstone, Mary Anne, 
a chair.” 

‘“‘Thank you,” said Bradley, seating himself 
in his constrained manner. ‘*‘ This is but a fly- 
ing visit. JI have looked in, on my way, to ask 
a kindness of you as a neighbor.” 

**Did you say on your way, Mr. Headstone ?” 
asked Miss Peecher. 

**On my way to—where I am going.” 

“Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill 
Bank,” repeated Miss Peecher, in her own 
thoughts. 

‘““Charley Hexam has gone to get a book or 
two he wants, and will probably be back before 
me. As we leave my house empty, I took the 
liberty of telling him I would leave the key here. 
Would you kindly allow me to do so?” 

- **Certainly, Mr. Headstone. Going for an 
evening walk, Sir?” 

‘“* Partly for a walk, and partly for—on busi- 
ness.”’ 

“Business in Church Street, Smith Square, 
by Mill Bank,” repeated Miss Peecher to her- 
self. 

** Having said which,” pursued Bradley, lay- 
ing his door-key on the table, ‘‘I must be al- 
ready going. ‘There is nothing I can do tor 
you, Miss Peecher ?” 


““'Thank you, Mr. Headstone. In which di- 


' rection ?” 


**Jn the direction of Westminster.” 

** Mill Bank,” Miss Peecher repeated in her 
own thoughts once again. ‘‘No, thank you, 
Mr. Headstone; Ill not trouble you.” 

**You couldn’t trouble me,” said the school- 
master. 

‘* Ah!” returned Miss Peecher, though not 
aloud; ‘but you can trouble me!” And for all 
her quiet manney, and her quiet smile, she was 
full of trouble as he went his way. 

She was right touching his destination. He 
held as straight a course for the house of the 


dolls’ dress-maker as the wisdom of his ances- 


tors, exemplified in the construction ofthe. in- 
tervening streets, would let_him, and walked 
with a bent head hammering at one fixed idea, 
It had been an immovable idea since he first set 
eyes upon her. It seemed to him as if all that 
he could suppress in himself he had suppressed, 
as if all that he could restrain in himself he had 
restrained,-and the time had come—in a rush, 
in a moment—when the power of self-command 
had departed from him. Love at first sight is 
a trite expression quite sufficiently discussed ; 
enough that in certain smouldering natures like 
this man’s, that passion leaps into a blaze, and 
makes such head as fire does in a rage of wind, 
when other passions, but for its mastery, could 
be held in chains. As a multitude of weak, 
imitative natures are always lying by, ready to 
go mad upon the next wrong idea that may be 
broached—in these times generally some form 
of tribute to Somebody for something that never 
was done, or, if ever done, that was done by 
Somehody Else—so these less ordinary natures 


“may lie by for years, ready on the touch of an 


instant to burst into flame. 
The schoolmaster went his way, brooding and 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


155 


brooding, and a sense of being vanquished in g 
struggle might have been pieced out of his wor- 
Truly, in his breast there lingered a 
resentful shame to find himself defeated by this 
passion for Charley Hexam’s sister, though in 
the very self-same moments he was concentrat- 
ing himself upon the object of bringing the pas- 
sion to a successful issue. 

He appeared before the dolls’ dress-maker, 
sitting alone at her work. ‘‘Oho!” thought 
that sharp young personage, ‘‘it’s you, is it? J 
know yourtricks and your manners, my friend !” 

‘‘ Hexam’s sister,” said Bradley Headstone, 
‘*is not come home yet ?” 

‘You are quite a conjurer,’ 
Wren. 

‘*T will wait, if you please, for I want to speak 
to her.” 

**Do you?” returned Miss Wren. 
I hope it’s mutual.” 

Bradley glanced distrustfully at the shrewd 
face again bending over the work, and said, try- 
ing to conquer donbt and hesitation; 

‘*T hope you don’t imply that my visit will be 
unacceptable to Hexam’s sister ?”” 

‘“There! Don’t call her that. I can’t bear 
you to call her that,”’ returned Miss Wren, snap- 
ping her fingers in a volley of impatient snaps, 
‘for I don’t like Hexam.” 

‘* Indeed ?” 

‘*No.” Miss Wren wrinkled her nose, to ex- 
press dislike. ‘‘Selfish, Thinksonly.of him- 
self. The way with all of you.” 

*“The way with all of us? Then you don’t 
like me ?”’ 

**So-so,” replied Miss Wren, with a shrug and 
alaugh. ‘*Don’t know much about you.” 

‘*But I was not aware it was the way with 
all of us,” said Bradley, returning to the accu- 
sation, a little injured. ‘‘Won’t you say, some 
of us?” 

‘* Meaning,” returned the little creature, “ ev- 
ery one of you, but you. Hah! Now look this 
lady in the face. This is Mrs. Truth. The 
Honorable. Full-dressed.” 

Bradley glanced at the doll she held up for 
his observation—which had been lying on its 
face on her bench, while with a needle and 
thread she fastened the dress on at the back— 
and looked from it to her. 

‘*T stand the Honorable Mrs. T. on my bench 
in this corner against the wall, where her blue 
eyes can shine upon you,” pursued Miss Wren, 
doing so, and making two little dabs at him in 
the air with her needle, as if she pricked him 
with it in his own eyes; ‘‘and I defy you to tell 
me, with Mrs. T. for a witness, what you have 
come here for.” 

‘¢To see Hexam’s sister.” 

‘“You don’t say so!’ retorted Miss Wren, 
hitching her chin. ‘‘ But on whose account?” 

‘* Her own.” 

‘“‘Oh, Mrs. T.!” exclaimed Miss Wren. ‘ You 
hear him !” 

‘¢To reason with her,” pursued Bradley, half 
humoring what-was present, and half angry with 
what was not present; ‘“for her own sake.” 

“Oh, Mrs. T. !” exclaimed the dress-maker. 

‘¢ For-her.own sake,” repeated Bradley, warm- 
ing, ‘‘and for her brother’s, and as a perfectly 
disinterested person.” w 

‘‘Really, Mrs, T.,” remarked the dress-mak-~ 


* 


? 


returned Miss 


*¢ Sit down. 


. 


156 


er, ‘‘since it comes to this, we must positively 
turn you with your face to the wall.” She had 
hardly done so when Lizzie Hexam arrived, 
and showed some surprise on seeing Bradley 
Headstone there, and Jenny shaking her little 
fist at him close before her eyes, and the Hon- 
orable Mrs. 'T. with her face to the wall. « 

‘¢ Here’s a perfectly disinterested person, Liz- 
zie dear,’’ said the knowing Miss Wren, ‘‘come 
to talk with you, for your own sake and your 
brother’s. Think of that. I am sure there 
ought to be no third party present at any thing 
so very kind and so very serious; and so, if 
you'll remove the third party up stairs, my dear, 
the third party will retire.” 

Lizzie took the hand which the dolls’ dress- 
maker held out to her for the purpose of being 
supported away, but only looked at her with an 
inquiring smile, and made no other movement. 

‘*'The third party hobbles awfully, you know, 
when she’s left to herself,” said Miss Wren, 
‘*“her back being so bad, and her legs so queer, 
so she can’t retire gracefully unless you help her, 
Lizzie.” 

‘¢She can do no better than stay where she 
is,” returned Lizzie, releasing the hand, and 
laying ber own lightly on Miss Jenny’s curls. 
And then to Bradley: “‘ From Charley, Sir?” 

In an irresolute way, and stealing a clumsy 
look at her, Bradley rose to place a chair for her, 
and then returned to his own. 

“‘Strictly speaking,” said he, ‘*I come from 
Charley, because I left him only a little while 
ago; but I am not commissioned by Charley. 
I come of my own spontaneous act.” 

With her elbows on her bench, and her chin 
upon her hands, Miss Jenny Wren sat looking 
at him with a watchful sidelong look. Lizzie, 
in her different way, sat looking at him too. 

“The fact is,” began Bradley, with a mouth 
so dry that he had some difficulty in articulating 
his words: the consciousness of which rendered 
his manner still more ungainly and undecided ; 
“the truth is, that Charley, having no secrets 
from me (to the best of my belief), has confided 
the whole of this matter to me.” 

He came to a stop, and Lizzie asked: ‘* What 
matter, Sir?” 

‘I thought,” returned the schoolmaster, steal- 
ing another look at her, and seeming to try in 
vain to sustain it; for the look dropped as it 
lighted on her eyes, ‘‘that it might be so super- 
fluous as to be almost impertinent, to enter upon 
a definition of it. My allusion was to this mat- 
ter of your having put aside your brother’s plans 
for you, and given the preference to those of Mr. 
—I believe the name is Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.” 

He made this point of not being certain of 
the name, with another uneasy look at her, 
which dropped like the last. 

Nothing being said on the other side, he had 
to begin again, and began with new embarrass- 
ment. 

“Your brother’s plans were communicated to 
me when he first had them in his thoughts. In 
point of fact he spoke to me about them when I 
~ was last here—when we were walking back to- 
gether, and when I-—-when the impression was 
fresh upon me of having seen his sister.” 

There might have been no meaning in it, but 
the little dress-maker here removed one of her 
supporting hands from her chin, and musingly 


great pains with us. : 
said to her we hope in a very little while to he 


” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. we 


turned the Honorable Mrs. T. with her face to | 


the company, That done she fell into her for- 
mer attitude. Se ae 

‘¢T approved of his idea,” said Bradley, with 
his uneasy look wandering to the doll, and un- 
consciously resting there longer than it had rest- 
ed on Lizzie, ‘*‘ both because your brother ought 
naturally to be the originator cf any such scheme, 
and because I hoped to be able to promote it. 
I should have had inexpressible pleasure, I 
should have taken inexpressible interest, in. pro- 
moting it. Therefore I must acknowledge that 
when your brother was disappointed, I too was 
disappointed. I wish to avoid reservation or 
concealment, and I fully acknowledge that.” 

He appeared to have enconraged himself by 
having got so far. At all events he went on 
with much greater firmness and force of em- 
phasis: though with a curious disposition to set 
his teeth, and with a/ curious tight-screwing 
movement of his right hand in the clenching. 
palm of his left, like the action of one who was 
being physically hurt, and was unwilling to ery 
out. 

‘‘T am a man of strong feelings, and I have 
strongly felt this disappointment. I do strongly 
feel it. I don’t show what I feel; some of us 
are obliged habitually to keep it down. To 
keep it down. But to return to your brother. 
He has taken the matter so much to heart that 
he has remonstrated (in my presence he remon- 
strated) with Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, if that be 
the name. 
any one not blinded to the real character of Mr. 
—Mr. Eugene Wrayburn—would readily sup- 
pose.” 

He looked at Lizzie again, and held the look. 
And his face turned from burning red to white, 
and from white back to burning red, and so for 
the time to lasting deadly white. 

‘* Finally, I resolved to come here alone and 
appeal to you. I resolved to come here alone, 
and entreat you to retract the- course you have 
chosen, and instead of confiding in a mere 
stranger—a person of most insolent behavior to 
your brother and others—to prefer your brother 
and your brother’s friend.” 

Lizzie Hexam had changed color when those. 
changes came over him, and her face now ex- 
pressed some anger, more dislike, and even a 
touch of fear. But she answered him very 
steadily. 

‘*T can ‘vt loupt. Mr. Headstone, that your 
visit is we?i meent. You have been so good a 
friend to Ciaile hat I have no right to doubt 
it. 1 have urine 
accepted the heij to which he so much objects 
before he made any plans for me; or certainly 
before I knew of any. It was considerately and 
delicately offered, and there were reasons that 
had weight with me which should be as dear to 
Charley as to me. I have no more to say to 
Charley on this subject.” 

His lips trembled and stood apart, as he fol- 


lowed this repudiation of himself, and limitation | 


of her words to her brother. 


‘‘T should have told Charley, if he had come _ 
to me,” she resumed, as though it were an after- _ 
thought, “that Jenny and I find our teacher © 


very able and very patient, and that she takes 
So much so, that we have 


He did so quite ineffectually. As _ 


| 


to tell Charley, but that L | 


able to go on by ourselves. Charley knows 
about teachers, and I should also have told him, 
for his satisfaction, that ours comes from an in- 
stitution where teachers are regularly brought 
u Boe Z 
Mi Ishould like to ask you,” said Bradley Head- 
stone, grinding his words slowly out, as though 
they came from a rusty mill; ‘‘I should like to 
ask you, if I may without: offense, whether you 
would have objected—no; rather, I should like 
to say, if I may without offense, that I wish I 
had had the opportunity of coming here with 
your brother and devoting my poor abilities and 
experience to your service.” 

**’Thank you, Mr. Headstone.” 

** But I fear,” he pursued, after a pause, fur- 
tively wrenching at the seat of his chair with 
one hand, as if he would have wrenched the 
chair to pieces, and gloomily observing her while 
her eyes were cast down, ‘‘ that my humble serv- 
ices would not have found much favor with you ?” 

She made no reply, and the poor stricken 
wretch sat contending with himself in a heat 
of passion and torment. After a while he took 
out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and 
hands. 

‘* There is only one thing more I had to say, 
but it is the most important. There is a reason 
against this matter, there is a personal relation 
concerned in this matter, not yet explained to 
you. It might—I don’t say it would—it might 
—induce you to think differently. To proceed 
under the present circumstances is out of the 
question. Will you please come to the under- 

‘standing that there shall be another interview 
on the subject ?” 

“With Charley, Mr. Headstone ?” 

** With — well,” he answered, breaking off, 
“yes! Say with him too, Will you please 


come to the understanding that there must be |. 


another interview under more favorable circum- 
stances, before the whole case can be submit- 
ted ?” 

‘I don’t,” said Lizzie, shaking her head, 
“understand your meaning, Mr. Headstone.” 

*‘Limit my meaning for the present,” he in- 
terrupted, ‘‘to the whole case being submitted 
to you in another interview.” 

“What case, Mr. Headstone? What is want- 
ing to it?” 

‘* You—you shall be informed in the other in- 
terview.” Then he said, as if in a burst of irre- 
pressible despair, ‘‘ I—I leave it all incomplete ! 
There is a spell upon me, I think!” And then 
added, almost as if he asked for pity, ‘“Good- 

“night!” 

He held out his hand. As she, with mani- 
fest hesitation, not to say reluctance, touched it, 
a strange tremble passed over him, and his face, 
so deadly white, was moved as by a stroke of 
pain. Then he was gone. 

The dolls’ dress-maker sat with her attitude 
unchanged, eying the door by which he had de- 
parted, until Lizzie pushed her bench aside and 
sat down near her. Then, eying Lizzie as she 
had previously eyed Bradley and the door, Miss 
Wren chopped that very sudden and keen chop 
in which her jaws sometimes indulged, leaned 
back in her chair with folded arms, and thus 
‘expressed herself: | 

“Humph! If he—I mean, of course, my 
dear, the party who is coming to cowt me when 


a) 


oe : <4 f 
i ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


157 


the time comes—should be that sort of man, he 
may spare himself the trouble. He wouldn’t do 
to be trotted about and made useful. He'd take 
fire and blow up while he was about it.” 

** And so you would be rid of him,” said Liz- 
zie, humoi.ng her. 

‘* Not so easily,” returned Miss Wren. 
wouldn’t blow upalone. He’d carry me up with 
him. J know his tricks and his manners.” 

‘‘ Would he want to hurt you, do you mean?” 
asked Lizzie. 

‘‘Mightn’t exactly want to do it, my dear,” 
returned Miss Wren; ‘but a lot of gunpowder 
among lighted lucifer-matches in the next room 
might almost as well be here.” 

‘“‘He is a gery strange man,” 
thoughtfully. 

‘‘f wish he was so very strange a man as to: 
be a total stranger,” answered the sharp little 
thing. 

It being Lizzie’s regular occupation when they 
were alone of an evening to brush out and smooth 
the long fair hair of the dolls’ dress-maker, she 
unfastened a ribbon that kept it back while the 
little creature was at her work, and it fell in a 
beautiful shower over the poor shoulders that 
were much in need of such adorning rain. ‘Not 
now, Lizzie dear,” said Jenny; ‘let us have a 
talk by the fire.” ‘With those words, she in her 
turn loosened her friend’s dark hair, and it 
dropped of its. own weight over her bosom, in 
two. rich masses. Pretending to compare the 
colors and admire the contrast, Jenny so man- 
aged a mere touch or two of her nimble hands, 
as that she herself laying a cheek on one of the 
dark folds, seemed blinded by her own cluster- 
ing curls to all but the fire, while the fine hand- 
some face and brow of Lizzie were revealed with- 
out obstruction in the sober light. 

‘‘Let us have a talk,” said Jenny, ‘about 
Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”’ 

Something sparkled down among the fair hair 
resting on the dark hair; and if it were not a 
star—which it couldn’t be—it was an eye; and 
if it were an eye, it was Jenny Wren’s eye, bright 
and watchful as the bird’s whose name she had 
taken. 

‘* Why about Mr. Wrayburn ?” Lizzie asked. 

‘*For no better reason than because I’m in 
the humor. I wonder whether he’s rich!” 

** No, not rich.” 

eR aCOOR £7 

‘*T think so, for a gentleman.” 

‘‘Ah! Tobe sure! Yes, he’s a gentleman. 
Not of our sort; is he ?” 

A shake of the head, a thoughtful shake of 
the head, and the answer, softly spoken, ‘‘Oh 
no, oh no!” | 

The dolls’ dress-maker had an arm round her 
friend’s waist. Adjusting the arm, she slyly 
took the opportunity of blowing at her own hair 
where it fell over her face; then the eye down 
there, under lighter shadows sparkled more 
brightly and appeared more watchful. 

‘When He turns up, he sha’n’t be a gentle- 
man; I'll very soon send him packing, if he is. 
However, he’s not Mr. Wrayburn; I haven’t 
captivated him. I wonder whether any body 
has, Lizzie !” f 

“It is very likely.” 

‘‘Ts it very likely? I wonder who!” 
“Ts it not very likely that some lady has 


€¢ He 


said Lizzie, 


158 


been taken by him, and that he may love her | might even come to be much better than you 


dearly ?” 
‘*Perhaps. I don’t know. 
think of him, Lizzie, if you were a lady?” 


‘‘T a lady!” she repeated, laughing. ‘‘Such 


a fancy!” 
vs, 
stance.” 

‘Ta lady! I, a poor girl who used to row 
poor father on the river. I, who had rowed 
poor father out and home on the very night 
when I saw him for the first time. I, who was 
- made so timid by his looking at me, that I got 
up and went out!” 

(‘* He did look at you, even that night, though 
you were not a lady!” thought Miss Wren. ) 

“Ta lady!” Lizzie went on in a low voice, 
with her eyes upon the fire. ‘‘I, with poor fa- 
ther’s grave not even cleared of undeserved stain 
and shame, and he trying to clear it forme! I 
a lady!” 

“‘Only as a fancy, and for instance,” urged 
Miss Wren. 

‘‘Too much, Jenny dear, too much! My 
fancy is not able to get that far.” As the low 
fire gleamed upon her, it showed her smiling 
mournfully and abstractedly. 

‘* But Iam in the humor, and I must be hu- 
mored, Lizzie, because after all I am a poor 
little thing, and have had a hard day with my 
bad child. Look in the fire, as I like to hear 
you tell how you used to do when you lived in 
that dreary old house that had once been a 
wind-mill. Look in the—what was its name 
when you told fortunes with your brother that 
I don’t like?” 

‘* The hollow down by the flare?” 

‘Ah! ‘That’s the name! You can find a 
ady there, J know.” 

‘¢ More easily than I can make one of such 
material as myself, Jenny.” 

The sparkling eye looked steadfastly up, as the 
musing face looked thoughtfully down, ‘* Well?” 
said the dolls’ dress-maker, ‘‘ We have found our 
lady ?”’ 

Lizzie nodded, and asked, 
rich ?” 

«She had better be, as he’s poor.” 

‘*She is very rich. Shall she be handsome ?” 

‘¢Even you can be that, Lizzie, so she ought 
to be.” 

‘* She is very handsome.” 

‘* What does she say about him?” asked Miss 
Jenny, in a low voice: watchful, through an in- 
tervening silence, of the face looking down at the 
fire. 

‘She is glad, glad, to be rich, that he may 
have the money. She is glad, glad, to be beau- 
tifal, that he may be proud of her. Her poor 
heart—” 

‘¢Kh? Her poor heart?” said Miss Wren. 

‘¢ Her heart—is given him, with all its love 
and truth. She would joyfully die with him, 
or, better than that, die for him. She knows 
he hasvfailings, but she thinks they have grown 
up through his being like one cast away, for the 
want of something to trust in, and care for, and 
think well of. And she says, that lady rich 
and beautiful that I can never come near, ‘Only 
put me in that empty place, only try how little 
I mind myself, only prove what a world of things 
I will do and bear for you, and I hope that you 


But say: just as a fancy, and for in- 


*“ Shall she be 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | ae 
| 

What would you | hardly worth the thinking of beside you. : 
| 


‘dren!” 


her as security. 


are, through me who am so much worse, and 
99> 

As the face looking at the fire had become 
exalted and forgetful in the rapture of these 
words, the little creature, openly clearing away | 
her fair hair with her disengaged hand, had 
gazed at it with earnest attention and something 
like alarm. Now that the speaker ceased, the 
little creature laid down her head again, and | 
moaned, ‘‘O me, O me, O me!” | 

‘‘In pain, dear Jenny?” asked Lizzy, as if 
awakened. 

‘‘Yes, but not the old pain. Lay me down, 
lay me down. Don’t go out of my sight to- 
night. Lock the door and keep close to me.” 
Then turning away her face, she said in a whis- 


per to herself, ‘* My Lizzie, my poor Lizzie! 
:O my blessed children, come back in the long 


bright slanting rows, and come for her, not me. 
She wants help more than I, my blessed chil- 


She had stretched her hands up with that 
higher and better look, and now she turned 
again, and folded them round Lizzie’s neck, | 
and rocked herself on Lizzie’s breast. 


pS ek Bae 


CHAPTER XII. | 
MORE BIRDS OF PREY. 


RocvEe Ripervoop dwelt deep and dark in 
Limehouse Hole, among the riggers, and the 
mast, oar, and block makers, and the boat-build- 
ers, and the sail-lofts, as in a kind of ship’s hold 
stored full of waterside characters, some no bet- 
ter than himself, some very much better, and 
none much worse. ‘The Hole, albeit in a gen- ) 
eral way not over-nice in its choice of company, 
was rather shy in reference to the honor of cul- 
tivating the Rogue’s acquaintance; more fre- 
quently giving him the cold shoulder than the 
warm hand, and seldom or never drinking with 
him unless at his own expense. A part of the 
Hole, indeed, contained so much public spirit 
and private virtue that not even this strong lev- 
erage could move it to good fellowship with a 
tainted accuser. But there may have been the 
drawback on this magnanimous morality, that 
its exponents held a true witness before Justice 
to be the next unneighborly and accursed char- 
acter to a false one. 

Had it not been for the daughter whom he 
often mentioned, Mr. Riderhood might have 
found the Hole a mere grave as to any means 
it would yield him of getting a living. But Miss 
Pleasant Riderhood had some little position and 
connection in Limehouse Hole. Upon the small- 
est of small scales, she was an unlicensed pawn- 
broker, keeping what was popularly called a 
Leaving Shop, by lending insignificant sums on 
insignificant articles of property deposited with 
In her four-and-twentieth year 
of life, Pleasant was already in her fifth year 
of this way of trade. Her deceased mother had 
established the business, and on that parent’s 
demise she had appropriated a secret capital 
of fifteen shillings to establishing herself in it; 
the existence of such capital in a pillow being 
the last intelligible confidential communication — 

made to her by the departed, before suecumb-> _ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ing to dropsical conditions of snuff and gin, 
incompatible equally with coherence and exist- 
ence. 

Why christened Pleasant, the late Mrs. Rid- 
erhood might possibly have been at some time 
able to explain, and possibly not. Her daugh- 
ter had no information on that point. Pleas- 
ant she found herself, and she couldn’t help it. 
She had not been consulted on the question, 
any more than on the question of her coming 
into these terrestrial parts, to want a name. 
Similarly, she found herself possessed of what 
is colloquially termed_a swivel eye (derived from 
her father), which she might perhaps have de- 
clined if her sentiments on the subject had been 
taken. She was not otherwise positively ill- 
looking, though anxious, meagre, of a muddy 
complexion, and looking as old again as she re- 
ally was. ; 

As some dogs have it in the blood, or are 


trained, to worry certain creatures to a certain. 


point, so—not to make the comparison disre- 
spectfully — Pleasant Riderhood had it in the 
blood, or had been trained, to regard seamen, 
Wituin certuin limits, as her prey. Show her a 
man in a blue jacket, and, figuratively speaking, 
she pinned him instantly. Yet, all things con- 
sidered, she was not of an evil mind or an un- 
kindly disposition. For, observe how many things 
were to be considered according to her own un- 
fortunate experience. Show Pleasant Riderhood 
a Wedding in the street, and she only saw two 
people taking out a regular license to quarrel 
and fight. Show her a Christening, and she 
saw a little heathen personage having a quiie 
superfluous name bestowed upon it, inasmuch 
as it would be commonly addressed by some 
abusive epithet: which little personage was tot 
in the least wanted by any body, and would be 
shoved and banged out of every body’s way, un- 
til it should grow big enough to shove and bang. 
Show her a Funeral, and she saw an unremun- 
erative ceremony. in the nature of a black mas- 
querade, conferring a temporary gentility on the 
performers, at an immense expense, and_repre- 
senting the only formal party ever given by the 
deceased. Show her a live father, and she saw 
but a duplicate of her own father, who from. her 
infancy had been taken with fits and starts of 
discharging his duty to her, which duty was. al- 
Ways incorporated in the form of a fist or a 


leathern strap, and being discharged hurt her,’ 


All things considered, therefore, Pleasant Rid- 
erhood was not so very, verv bad. ‘There was 
even a touch of romance in her—of such ro- 
miance as could creep into Limehouse Hole— 
end maybe sometimes of a summer evening, 
when she stood with folded arms at her shop- 
door, looking from the reeking street to the sky 
where the sun was setting, she may have had 
some vaporous visions of far-off islands in the 
southern seas or elsewhere (not being geograph- 
ically particular), where it would be good to 
roam with a congenial partner among groves of 
bread-fruit, waiting for ships to be wafted from 
the hollow ports of civilization. For, sailors to 
‘be ot the better of, were essential to Miss Pleas- 
ant’s Eden. 

Not on a summer evening did she come to her 
little shop-door, when a certain man standing 
over against: the house on the opposite side of the 
street took notice of her. That was on a cold 


159 


shrewd windy evening, after dark. Pleasant 


| Riderhood shared, with most of the lady inhab- 


itants of the Hol, the peculiarity that her hair 
was a ragged knot, constantly coming down be- 
hind, and that she never could enter upon any 
undertaking without first twisting. it into place. 
At that particular moment, being newly come to 
the threshold to take a look out of doors, she 
was winding herself up with both hands after 
this fashion. And so prevalent was the fashion, 
that on the occasion of 4 fight or other disturb- 
ance in tne Hole, the ladies would be seen flock- 
ing from all quarters universally twisting their 
back-hair as they came along, and many of them, 
in the hurry of the moment, carrying their back- 
combs in their mouths. 

It was a wretched little shop, with a roof that 
any man standing. in it could touch with his 
hand; little better than a cellar or cave, down 
three steps. Yet in its ill-lighted window, among 
a flaring handkerchief or two, an old peacoat or 
so, a few valueless watches and compasses, a jar 
of tobacco and two crossed pipes, a bottle of wal- 
nut ketchup, and some horrible sweets—these 
creature discomforts serving as a blind to the 
main business of the Leaving Shop—was dis- 
played the inscription Sraman’s Boarpinc- 
Ilousp. 

Taking notice of Pleasant Riderhood at the 
door, the man crossed so quickly that she was’ 
still winding herself up, when he stood close be- 
fore her. 

‘¢Ts vour father at home ?” said he. 

‘*} think he is,” returned Pleasant, dropping 
herarms; ‘‘come in.” 

It was a tentative reply, the man having a 
sea-faring appearance. Her father was not at 
home, and Pleasant knew it, ‘Take a seat by 
the fire,” was her hospitable words, when she 
had got him in; ‘men of your calling are al- 
ways welcome here.” 

‘*Thankee,” said the man. 

His manner was the manner of a sailor, and 
his hands were the hands of a sailor, except that 
they were smooth. Pleasant had an eye for 
sailors, and she noticed the unused color and 
texture of the hands, sunburnt though they were, 
as sharply as she noticed their unmistakable 
looseness and suppleness, as he sat himself down 
with his left arm carelessly thrown across his 
left leg a little above the knee, and the right 
arm as carelessly thrown over the elbow of the 
wooden chair, with the hand curved, half open 
and half shut, as if it had just let go a rope. 

** Might vou be locking fora Boarding-House 2?” 
Pleasant inquired, taking her observant stand on 
one side of the fire. 

*¢T don’t rightly know niy plans yet,” returned 
the man. 

‘¢You ain’t looking for a Leaving Shop?” 

‘¢No,” said the man. 

‘*No,” assented Pleasant, ‘‘you’ve got too 
much of an ontfit on vou for that. But if you 
should want either, this is both.” . 

‘¢ Ay, ay!” said the man, glancing round the 
place. ‘*I know. I’ve been here before.” 

‘Tid you Leave any thing when you were 
here before?” asked Pleasant, with a view to. 
principal and interest. 

‘“No.”?) The man shook his head. 

‘‘T am pretty sure you never boarded here ?” 

“No.” The man again shvok his head. 


160 


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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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MISS RIDERHOOD AT HOME 


**What did you do here when you were here 
before?” asked Pleasant; ‘‘for I don’t remem- 
b-r you.” 

{t's not at all likely you should. I only 
stood’at the door, one night—on the lower step 
there—while a ship-mate of mine Jooked in to 
speak to your father. I remember the place 
well.” Looking very curiously round it, 

‘*Might that have been long ago?” 

** Ay, a goodish bit ago. When I came off 
my last voyage.” 

‘*'Phen you have not been to sea lately ?” 

“No. Been in the sick bay since then, and 
been employed ashore.” 

‘“‘Then, to be sure, that accounts for your 
hanils.” 


The man with a keen look, a quick smile, and: 


‘*You’re 
‘That accounts for my 


a change of manner, caught her up. 
a good observer Yes. 
hands.” 


Pleasant was somewhat disquieted by his look, 
and returned it suspiciously. Not only was his 
change of manner, though very sudden, quite 
collected, but his former manner, which he re- 
sumed, had a certain suppressed confidence and 
sense of power in it that were half threatening. 

‘“* Will your father be long?” he inquired. 

‘*T don’t know. I can’t say.” 

‘* As you supposed he was at home, it would 
seem that he has just gone out? How’s that ?” 

‘‘T supposed he had come home,” Pleasant 
explained, 

‘Oh! You supposed he had come home? 
Then he has been some time out? How’s that ?” 

‘*T don’t want to deceive you. Father’s on 
the river in his boat.” ‘ 

“At the old work?” asked the man. 

‘*¢T don’t know what you mean,” said Pleas- 
ant, shrinking a step back. ‘‘ What on earth — 
d’ye want ?” ae: 


Laer er’ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


s*y fgon’t want to hurt your father. I don’t 
‘want wo say I might, if I chose. I want to speak 
to him. Not much in that, is there? There 
shall be no secrets from you; you shall be by. 
And plainly, Miss hiderhood, there’s nothing to 
be got out of me, or made of me. I am not 
good for the Leaving Shop, I am not good for 
the Boarding-House, I am not good for any thing 
in your way to the extent of sixpenn’orth of half- 
pence. Put the idea aside, and we shall get on 
together.” 

“But you’re a sea-faring man ?” argued Pleas- 
ant, as if that were a sufficient reason for his be- 
ing good for something in her way. 

“Yes and no. I have been, and I may be 
again. But Iamnot for you. Won't you take 
my word for it ?” 

The conversation had arrived at a crisis to 


justify-Miss Pleasant’s hair in tumbling down. 


It tumbled down accordingly, and she twisted it 
up, looking from under her bent forehead at the 
man. In taking stock of his familiarly worn 
rough-weather nautical clothes, piece by piece, 
she took stock of a formidable knife in a sheath 
at his waist ready to his hand, and of a whistle 
hanging round his neck, and of a short jagged 
knotted club with a loaded head that peeped out 
of a pocket of his loose outer jacket or frock. He 
sat quietly looking at her; but, with these ap- 
pendages partially revealing themselves, and with 
a quantity of bristling oakum-colored head and 
whisker, he had a formidable appearance. 

- ‘*Won’t you take my word for it?” he asked 
again. 

Pleasant answered with a short dumb nod. 
He rejoined with another short dumb nod. Then 

‘he got up and stood with his arms folded, in 
front of the fire, looking down into it occasion- 
ally, as she stood with her arms folded, leaning 
against the side of the chimney-picce. 

“To while away the time till your father 
comes,” he said—‘‘ pray is there much robbing 
and murdering of seamen about the water-side 
now ?” 

*“No,” said Pleasant. 

(24 Any ?” 

“Complaints of that sort are sometimes made 
about Ratcliffe and Wapping, and up that way. 
But who knows how many are true?” 

‘**'To be sure. And it don’t seem necessary.” 

**That’s what I say,” observed Pleasant. 
*“Where’s the reason for it? Bless the sailors, 
it ain’t as if they ever could keep what they 
have without it.” 

“You're right. Their money may be soon 
got out of them, without violence,” said the man. 

“Of course it may,” said Pleasant; ‘and 
then they ship again, and get more. And the 
best thing for ’em, too, to ship again as soon as 
ever they can be brought to it. They’re never 
so well off as when they’re afloat.” 

_ “Vil tell you why I ask,” pursued the visitor, 
looking up from the fire. ‘‘I was once beset 
that way myself, and left for dead.” 

“No?” said Pleasant. ‘* Where did it hap- 
pen?” 

“Tt happened,” returned the man, with a 
Tuminative air, as he drew his right. hand across 
his chin, and dipped the other in the pocket of 
his rough outer coat—‘‘ it happened somewhere 
about here as I reckon. I don’t think it can 
have been a mile from here.” . 


Y# 


he. 


161 


** Were you drunk?” asked Pleasant. 

“I was muddled, but not with fair drinking, 
I had not been drinking, ‘you understand. A 
mouthful did it.” 

Pleasant with a grave look shook her head; 
importing that she understood the process, but 
decidedly disapproved. 

‘‘Fair trade is one thing,” said she, ‘but 
that’s another. No one has a right to carry on 
with Jack in that way.” 

‘“The sentiment does you credit,” returned 
the man, with a grim smile; and added, in a 
mutter, ‘the more so, as I believe it’s not your 
father’s.—Yes, I had a bad time of it that time. 
I lost every thing, and had a sharp struggle for 
my life, weak as I was.” 

‘*Did you get the parties punished ?” asked 
Pleasant. 

‘*A tremendous punishment followed,” said 
the man, more seriously; ‘ but it was not of my 
bringing about.” 

‘*Of whose, then?” asked Pleasant. 

The man pointed upward with his forefinger, 
and, slowly recovering that hand, settled his chin 
in it again as he looked at the fire. Bringing 
her inherited eye to bear upon him, Pleasant 
Riderhood felt more and more uncomfortable, 
his manner was so mysterious, so stern, so self- 
possessed. 

‘* Any ways,” said the damsel, ‘‘I am glad 
punishment followed, and I say so. Fair trade 
with sea-faring men gets a bad name through 
deeds of violence. I am as much against deeds 
of violence being done to sea-faring men, as sea- 
faring men can be themselves. I am of the 
same opinion as my mother was, when she was 
living. Fair trade, my mother used to say, but 
no robbery and no blows.’ In the way of trade 
Miss Pleasant would have taken—and indeed 
did take when she could—as much as thirty 
shillings a week for board that would be dear at 
five, and likewise. conducted the Leaving busi- 
ness upon correspondingly equitable principles ; 
yet she had that tenderness of conscience and 
those feelings of humanity, that the moment her 
ideas of trade were overstepped, she became the 
seaman’s champion, even against her father whom 
she seldom otherwise resisted. 

But she was here interrupted by her father’s 
voice exclaiming angrily, ‘*‘ Now, Poll Parrot!” 
and by her father’s hat being heavily flung from 
his hand and striking her face. Accustomed to 
such occasional manifestations of his sense of 
parental duty, Pleasant merely wiped her face 
on her hair (which of course had tumbled down) 
before she twisted itup. This was another com- 
mon procedure on the part of the ladies of the 
Hole,when heated by verbal or fistic altercation. 

‘*Blest if I believe such a Poll Parrot as you 
was ever learned to speak !”’ growled Mr. Rider- 
hood, stooping to pick up his hat, and making 
a feint at her with his head and right elbow ; for 
he took the delicate subject of robbing seamen 
in extraordinary dudgeon, and was out of hu- 
mor too. ‘‘What are you Poll Parroting at 
now? Ain’t you got nothing to do but fold 
your arms and stand a Poll Parroting all night ?” 

‘* Let her alone,” urged the man. ‘‘ She was 
only speaking to me.”’ 

‘¢ Let her alone too!”’ retorted Mr. Riderhood, 
eying him all 2 oe “Do you know she’s my 
daughter ?” 


162 


ee a 

«¢ And don’t you know that I won’t have no 
Poll. Parroting.on the part of my daughter? 
No, nor yet that I won’t take-no. Poll Parroting 
from no man? And who may you be, and what 
may you want?” 

‘How can I tell you until you are silent ?” 
returned the other, fiercely. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Rider hood, quailing a little, 
““T am willing to be silent for the purpose of 
hearing. But don’t Poll Parrot me.’ 

‘‘ Are you thirsty, you?” the man asked, in 
the same fierce, short way, after returning his 
look. 

‘¢Why nat’rally,” said Mr. Riderhood, ‘‘ ain’t 
T always thirsty!” (Indignant at the absurdity 
of the question.) 

“¢ What will you drink ?” demanded the man. 

‘¢ Sherry wine,” returned Mr. Riderhood, in 
the same sharp tone, ‘if you're capable of it.’ 

The man put his hand in his pocket, took ont 
half a-sovereign, and begged the favor of Miss 
Pleasant that she would fetch a bottle. ‘* With 
the cork undrawn,” he ‘added, emphatically, 
looking at her father. 

“T’ll take my Alfred David,” muttered Mr. 
Riderhood, slowly relaxing into a dark smile, 
‘that you know a move. Do J know you? 
N-n-no, I don’t know you.” 

The man replied, ‘‘No, you don’t know me.”’ 
And so they stood looking at one another surli- 
ly enough, until Pleasant came back. 

‘“There’s small glasses on the shelf,’ said 
Riderhood to his daughter. ‘* Give me the one 
without a foot. I gets my living by the sweat 


of my brow, and it’s good enough for me.” ‘This 
had a modest self-denying appearance; but it 


soon turned out that as, by reason ofthe impos- 
sibility of standing the glass upright while there 
was any thing in it, it required to be emptied as 
soon as filled, Mr, Riderhood managed to drink 
in the proportion of three to one, 

With his Fortunatus’s goblet ready in his hand, 
Mr. Riderhood sat down on one side of the table 
before the fire, and the strange man on the oth- 
er: Pleasant occupying a stool between the lat- 
ter and the fireside. The back-ground, com- 
posed of handkerchiefs, coats, shirts, hats, and 
other old articles ‘‘On Leaving,” had a general 
dim resemblance to human listeners; especially 
where a shiny black sou’wester suit and hat hung, 
looking very like a clumsy mariner with his back 
to the company, who was so curious to overhear, 
that he paused for the purpose with his coat half 
pulled on, and his shoulders up to his ears in 
the uncompleted action. 

The visitor first held the bottle against the 
light of the candle, and next examined the top 
of the cork. Satisfied that it had not been tam- 
pered with, he slowly took from his breast-pocket 
a rusty clasp-knife, and, with a cork-screw in 
the handle, opened the wine. That done, he 
looked at the cork, unscrewed it from the cork- 
screw, laid each separately on the table, and, 
with the end of the sailor’s knot of his necker- 
chief, dusted the inside of the neck of the bottle. 
All this with great deliberation. 

At first Riderhood had sat with his footless 
glass extended at arm’s-length for filling, while 
the very deliberate stranger. seemed absorbed in 
his preparations. But gradually his arm re- 
verted home to him, and his glass was lowered 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


| and lowered un'il he rested it upside down upon 
the table. By the same degrees his ‘attention 
became concentrated on the knife. 
as the man held out the bottle to fill all round, 


Riderhood stood up, leaned over the table to look 


closer at the knife, and stared from it to him. 
‘What's the matter?” asked the man, 
‘Why, I know that knife!” said Kiderhood. 
‘*Yes, I dare say you do.” he 


He motioned to him to hold up his glass, ‘and 


filled it. Riderhood emptied it to the last drop 
and began again. 

‘¢'That there knife—” 

“Stop,” said the man, composedly. ‘‘T was 
going to drink to your daughter. Your health, 
Miss Riderhood.” 

“That knife was the knife of aseaman named 
George Radfoot.” 

‘Tt was.” 

‘¢That seaman was well beknown to me.” 

‘*He was.” 6 

‘¢What’s come to him ?” 

‘Death has come to him. Death came to 
him in an ugly shape. He looked,” said the 
man, ‘* very horrible after it.” 

‘*¢ Arter what ?” said Riderhood, with a frown- 
ing stare. 

** After he was killed.” 

* Killed? Who killed him ?” 

Only answering with a shrug, the man filled 
the footless glass, and Riderwood emptied it: 
looking amazedly from his daughter to his vis- 
itor. 

‘¢You don’t mean to tell a honest man—” he 
was recommencing with his empty glass in his 
hand, when his eye became fascinated by the 
stranger’s outer coat. He leaned across the table 
to see it nearer, touched the sleeve, turned the 
cuff to look at the sleeve-lining (the man, in his 
perfect composure, offering not the least objec- 
tion), and exclaimed, ‘‘It’s my belief as this 
here coat was George Radfoot’s too!” 

“You areright. He wore it the last time you 
ever saw him, and the last time you ever will see 
him—in this world,” 

‘‘Tt’s my belief you mean to tell me to my 
face you killed him!” exclaimed Riderhood ; 
but, nevertheless, allowing his glass to be filled 
again, 


The man only answered with another shrug, 


and showed no symptom of confusion. 

‘Wish I may die if I know what to be up to 
with this chap !’’ said Riderhood, after staring at 
him, and tossing his last glassful down his throat. 
‘**Let’s know what to make of you. Say some- 
thing plain.” 

“¢T will,” returned the other, leaning forward 
across the table, and speaking in a low, impress- 
ive voice. ‘What a liar you are!” 

The honest witness rose, and made as though 
he would fling his glass inthe man’s face. The 
man not wincing, and merely shaking his fore- 
finger half knowingly, half menacinglv, the piece 
of honesty thought better of it and sat down 
again, putting the glass down too. 

‘“¢ And when you went to that lawyer yonder 
in the Temple with that invented story,” said the 
stranger, in an exasperatingly comfortable sort 
of confidence, ‘‘ you might have had your strong 
suspicions of a friend of vour own, you habeas 
I think you had, you know.” 

“* Me my suspicions? 


Ving 


And new,” 


Of what friend 2” 


«Tell me again whose knife was this?” de- 
manded the man. | 


“It was possessed by, and was the property of 


—him as [ have made mention on,” said Rider- 
hood, stupidly evading the actual mention of the 
name. __ 
_ Tell me again whose coat was this?” 

i a That there article of clothing likeways be- 
longed to, and was wore by—him as I have made 


<mention on,” was again the dull Old Bailey 


evasion. 
**] suspect that you gave him the credit of the 
deed, and of keeping cleverly out of the way. 


But there was small cleverness in his Keeping | 


out of the way. The cleverness would have 


been, to have got back for one single instant to 


the light of the sun.” 

“Things is come to a pretty pass,” growled 
Mr. Riderhood, rising to his feet, goaded to 
stand at bay, ‘‘ when bullyers as is wearing dead 


men’s clothes, and bullyers as is armed with | 


dead men’s knives, is to céme into the houses 
? 


of honest live men, getting their livings by the | 


sweats of their brows, and is to make these here 
sort of charges with no rhyme and no reason, 
neither the one nor yet the other! Why should 
I have had my suspicions of him ?” 

‘* Because you knew him,” replied the man; 
**because you had been one with him, and knew 
his real character under a fair outside; because 


on the night which you had afterward reason to 


man. 


believe to be the very night of the murder, he 
came in here, within an hour of his having left 
his ship in the docks, and asked you in what 
lodgings he could find room. Was there no 
stranger with him ?” 

‘*Pll take my world-without-end everlasting 
Alfred David that you warn’t with him,” an- 
swered Riderhood. ‘* You talk big, you do, but 
things look pretty black against yourself, to my 
thinking. You charge again’ me that George 
Radfoot got lost sight of, and was no more 
thought of. What’s that for a sailor? 
there’s fifty such, out of sight and out of mind, 


ten times as long as him—through entering in | 
different names, re-shipping when the out’ard | 


voyage is made, and what not—a turning up to 
light every day about here, and no matter made 
of it. Askmydaughter. You could goon Poll 
Parroting enough with her, when [ warn’t come 
in: Poll Parrot a little with her on this pint. 
You and your suspicions of my suspicions of 
him! What are my suspicions of you? You 
tell me George Radfoot got killed. 
who done it and how you know it, You carry 
his knife and you wear his coat. I ask you how 
you com: by ’em? Hand over that there. bot- 
tle!” Here Mr. Riderhood appeared to labor 
under a virtuous delusion that it was his own 
property. ‘‘‘ And you,” he added, turning to his 
daughter, as he filled the footless glass, ‘‘if it 
warn't wasting good sherry wine on you, I’d 
chuck this at you, for Poll Parroting with this 
It’s along of Poll Parroting that such 
like as him gets their suspicions, whereas I gets 
mine by argueyment, and being nat’rally a hon- 
est man, and sweating away at the brow as 4 
honest man ought.” Here he filled the footless 
goblet again, and stood chewing one half of its 
contents and looking down into the other as he 


_ slowly rolled the wine about in the glass; while 


Pleasant, whose sympathetic hair had come 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Why | 


I ask you | 


163 


down on her being apostrophized, rearranged it, 
much in the style of the tail of a horse when 
proceeding to market to be sold. 


‘Well? Have you finished?’ asked the 
strange man. 
‘‘ No,” said Riderhood, ‘‘I ain’t. Far from 


it. Now then! ‘I want to know how George 
Radfoct come by-his-death;-and-how, you come 
by, his kit ?” . ; 
|  “‘Ifyvou ever do know, you won’t know now.” 

** And next I want to know,” proceeded Rid- 
erhood, “whether you mean to charge that 
what-you-may-call-it-murder—” 

‘‘ Harmon murder, father,” suggested Pleas- 
ant. 

“No Poll Parroting!” he vociferated, in re- 
‘turn. ‘Keep your mouth shut!—I want to 
know, you Sir, whether you charge that there 
crime on George Radfoot ?” 
| ‘If you ever do know, you won’t know now.” 
‘* Perhaps you done it yourself?” said Rider- 
hood, with a threatening action. 
‘I alone know,” returned the man, sternly 
| shaking his head, ‘‘the mysteries of that crime. 
‘Talone know that your trumped-up story can 
not possibly be true. I alone know that it must 
be altogether false, and that you must know it 
to be altogether false. I come here to-night to 
_ tell you so much of what I know, and no more.” 
Mr. Riderhood, with his crooked eye upon his 
Visitor, meditated for some moments, and then 
refilled his glass, and tipped the contents down 
_his throat in three tips, 
“Shut the shop-door!” he then said to his 

daughter, putting the glass suddenly down. 
‘‘And turn the key and stand by it! If you 
‘know all this, you Sir,” getting, as he spoke, 
| between the visitor and the door, ‘why han’t 
| you gone to Lawyer Lightwood ?” 
| ‘That, also, is alone known to myself,” was 
the cool answer. 

‘**Den’t you know that, if you didn’t do the 
deed, what you say you could tell is worth from 
five to ten thousand pound ?” asked Riderhood. 

‘*] know it very well, and when I claim the 
money you Shall share it.” 

The honest man paused, and drew a little 
‘nearer to the visitor, and a little further from 
, the door. 

‘I know it,” repeated the man, quietly, ‘‘as 

well as I know that you and George Radfoot 
| were one together in more than one dark busi- 
ness; and as well as I know that you, Roger 
Riderhood, conspired against an innocent man 
for blood-money ; and as well as I know that I 
can-—and that I swear I will!—give you up on 
both scores, and be proof against you in my own 
person, if you defy me!” 

‘‘ Father !”’ cried Pleasant, from the door. 

**Don’t defy him! Give way to him! Don’t 
get into more trouble, father !” 

** Will you leave off a Poll Parroting, I ask 
you ?” cried Mr. Riderhood, half beside himself 
between the two. Then, propitiatingly and 
crawlingly: ‘* You Sir! You han’t said what 
you want of me. Is it fair, is it worthy of your- 
self, to talk of my defying you afore ever you 
say what you want of me?”’ . 

‘¢T don’t want much,’’ said the man. ‘‘ This 
accusation of yours must not be left half made 
and half unmade. What was done for the blood- 
money must be thoroughly undone.” 


164 


‘Well; but Shipmate—” 

‘* Don’t call me Shipmate,” said the man. 

‘*Captain, then,’ urged Mr. Riderhood ; 
“there! You won’t object to Captain. It’s 
an honorable title, and you fully look it. Cap- 
tain! <Ain’t the man dead? Now I ask you 
fair. Ain’t Gaffer dead ?” 

‘¢ Well,” returned the other, with impatience, 
**yes, he is dead. What then?” 

“*Can words hurt a dead man, Captain? I 
only ask you fair.” 

“They can hurt the memory of a dead man, 
and they can hurt his living children. How 
many children had this man ?” 

““Meaning Gaffer, Captain ?” 

‘“‘Of whom else are we speaking?” returned 
the other, with a movement of his foot, as if 
Rogue Riderhood were beginning to sneak be- 
fore him in the body as well as the spirit, and he 
spurned him off. ‘‘I have heard of a daughter 
and ason. I ask for information; I ask your 
daughter; I prefer to speak to her. What chil- 
dren did Hexam leave ?” 

Pleasant, looking to her father for permission 
to reply, that honest man exclaimed with great 
bitterness : 

“Why the devil don’t you answer the Cap- 
tain? You can Poll Parrot enough when you 
ain’t wanted to Poll Parrot, you perwerse jade!” 

Thus encouraged, Pleasant explained that 
there were only Lizzie, the daughter in ques- 
tion, and the youth. Both very respectable, 
she added. . 

*¢Jt is dreadful that any stigma should attach 
to them,”’ said the visitor, whom the considera- 
tion rendered so uneasy that he rose, and paced 
to and fro, muttering, ‘‘ Dreadful! Unfore- 
seen? How could it be foreseen!” Then he 
stopped, and asked aloud: ‘* Where do they live ?” 

Pleasant further explained that only the daugh- 
ter had resided with the father at the time of his 
accidental death, and that she had immediately 
afterward quitted the neighborhood. 

‘‘T know that,” said the man, ‘‘for I have 
been to the place they dwelt in, at the time of 
the inquest. Could you quietly find out for me 
where she lives now ?” 

Pleasant had no doubt she could do that. 
Within what time, did she think? Within a 
day. The visitor said that was well, and he 
would return for the information, relying on its 
being obtained. To this dialogue Riderhood 
had attended in silence, and he now obsequious- 
ly bespake the Captain. 

‘‘Captain! Mentioning them unfort’net words 
of mine respecting Gatfter, it is contrairily to. be 
bore in mind that Gaffer always were a precious 
rascal, and that his line were a thieving line. 
Likeways when I went to them two Governors, 
Lawyer Lightwood and the t’other Governor, 
with my information, I may have been a little 
over-eager for the cause of justice, or (to put it 
another way) a little over-stimilated by them feel- 
ings which rouses a man up, when a pot of mon- 
ey is going about, to get his hand into that pot 
of money for his family’s sake. Besides which, 
I think the wine of them two Governors was—I 
will not say a hocussed wine, but fur from a 


wine as was elthy for the mind. And there’s: 


another thing to be remembered, Captain. Did 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


I stick to them words whew Gaffer was no more, 
and did I say bold to them two Governors, 
‘Governors both, wot I informed I still inform ; 
wot was took down I hold to?’ No. I says, 
frank and open—no shuffling, mind you, Cap- 


tain!—‘I may have been mistook, Pve been a 
thinking of it, it mayn’t have been took down ~° 


correct on-this and that, and I won’t swear to 
thick and thin, I’d rayther forfeit. your good 
opinions than do it.’ And so far as I know,” 


concluded Mr. Riderhood, by way of proof and 
evidence to character, ‘‘I have actiwally forfeit- . 


ed the good opinions of several persons — even 
your own, Captain, if l.understand your words— 
but I'd sooner do it than be forswore. 


** You shall sign,” said the visitor, taking very 


little heed of this oration, ‘‘a statement that it_ 


was all utterly false, and the poor girl shall have 
it. I will bring it with me for your signature 
when I come again.” 

‘““When might you be expected, Captain ?” 
inquired Riderhood, again dubiously getting be- 
tween him and the door. : 

*¢ Quite soon enough for you. I shall not dis- 
appoint you; don’t be afraid.” 

‘*Might you be inclined to leave any name, 
Captain ?” 

‘¢No, not at all. J have no such intention.’’ 

‘¢¢Shall’ is summ/’at of a hard word, Captain,” 
urged Riderhood, still feebly dodging between 
him and the door, as he advanced. ‘* When 
you say a man ‘shall’ sign this and that and 
tother, Captain, you order him about in a grand 
sort of a way. Don’t it seem so to yourself?” 


The man stood still, and angrily fixed him. 


with his eyes. 

‘Father, father!”.entreated Pleasant, from 
the door, with her disengaged hand nervously 
trembling at her lips; ‘‘don’t! Don’t get into 
trouble any more!” 

‘¢ Hear me out, Captain, hear me out! All 
I was wishing to mention, Captain, afore you 
took your departer,”’ said the sneaking Mr. Rid- 
erhood, falling out of his path, ‘‘ was, your hand- 
some words relating to the reward.” 

**'When I claim it,” said the man, in a tone 
which seemed to leave some such words as * you 
sO: very distinctly understood, ‘you shall share 

° \ 

Looking steadfastly at Riderhood, he once 
more said in a low voice, this time with a grim 
soic of admiration of him as a perfect piece of 
evil, ‘‘ What a liar you are!” and, nodding his 
head twice or thrice over the compliment, passed 
out of the shop. But to Pleasant he said good- 
night kindly. 

The honest man who gained his living by the 
sweat of his brow remained in a state akin to 
stupefaction, until the footless glass and the un- 
finished bottle conveyed themselves into his mind. 
From his mind he conveyed them into his hands, 
and so conveyed the last of the wine into his 
stomach. When that was done, he awoke to a 
clear perception that Poll Parroting was solely 
chargeable with what had passed. Therefore, 
not to be remiss in his duty as a father, he threw 
a pair of sea-boots at Pleasant, which she ducked 


to avoid, and then cried, poor thing, using her | 


hair for a pocket-handkerchief, 


There ; . 
if that’s conspiracy, call me conspirator.” x 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


| mortals,” said he, to be looking into a church- 
| yard on a wild windy night, and to feel that I no 


CHAPTER XIII. 
A SOLO AND A DUET. 
THE wind was blowing so hard when the vis- 


itor came out at the shop-door into the darkness | 
-and dirt of Limehouse Hole, that it almost blew 
him in again. 


Doors were slamming violently, 
Jamps were flickering or blown out, signs were 
rocking in their frames, the water of the ken- 
nels, WMA cispersed, flew about in drops like 
rain. Indifferent to the weather, and even pre- 


ferring it to better weather for its clearance of 


the streets, the man looked about him with a 
scrutinizing glance. ‘‘Thus much I know,” he 
murmured. ‘I have never been here since that 


_ . night, and never was here before that night, but 


thus much [ recognize. 


I wonder which way 


did we take when we came out of that shop. 


_ he had begun. 


We turned to the right as I have turned, but I 
can recall no more. Did we go'by this alley ? 
Or down that little lane ?” 

He tried both, but both confused him equally, 
and he came straying back to the same spot. 
‘J remember there were poles pushed out of 
upper windows on which clothes were drying, 
and I remember a low public house, and the 
sound flowing down a narrow passage belong- 
ing to it of the scraping of a fiddle and the shuf- 
fling of feet. But here are all these things in the 
lane, and here are all these things in the alley. 
And I have nothing else in my mind but a wall, 
a dark doorway, a flight of stairs, and a room.” 

He tried a new direction, but made nothing 
of it; walls, dark doorways, flights of stairs and 
rooms, were too abundant. And, like most peo- 
ple so puzzled, he again and again described a 
circle, and found himself at the point from which 
**'This is like what I have read 
in narratives of escape from prison,” said he, 
“‘where the little track of the fugitives in the 
night always seems to take the shape of the 
great round world, on which they wander; as 
if it were a secret law.” 

Here he ceased to be the oakum-headed, oak- 
um-whiskered man on whom Miss Pleasant Rid- 
erhood had looked, and, allowing for his being 
still wrapped in a nautical over-coat, became as 
like that same lost wanted Mr. Julius Hand- 
ford as never man. was like another in. this 
world. In the breast of the coat he stowed the 
bristling hair and whisker, in a moment, as the 
favoring wind went with him down a solitary 
place that it had swept clear of passengers. Yet 
in that same moment he was the Secretary also, 
Mr. Boffin’s Secretary. For John Rokesmith, 


"too, was as like that same lost wanted Mr. Ju- 


lius Handford as never man was like another in 


this world. ; ) 


“I have no clew to the scene of my death,” 
said he. ‘‘ Not that it matters now. But hav- 
ing risked discovery by venturing here at all, I 
Should have been glad to track some part of the 
way.” With which singular words he aban- 
doned his search, came up out of Limehouse 
Hole, and took the way past Limehouse Church. 
At the great iron gate of the church-yard he 
Stopped and looked in. He looked up at the 
Righ tower spectrally resisting the wind, and 


he looked round at the white tombstones, like 


_ enough to the dead in their winding-sheets, and 
_ he counted the nine tolls of the clock-bell. 


“It is a sensation not experienced by many 


165 


more hold a place amoung the living than these 
dead do, and even to know that I lie buried 
somewhere else, as they lie buried here. No- 
thing uses me to it. A spirit that was once a 
man could hardly feel stranger or lonelier, going 
unrecognized among mankind, than I feel. 

‘* But this is the fanciful side of the situation. 
It has a real side, so ditticult that, though I 
think of it every day, I never thoroughly think 
it out. Now let me determine to think it out as 
I walk home. I know I evade it as many men 
—perhaps most men—do evade thinking their 
way through their greatest perplexity. I will 
try to pin myself to mine. Don’t evade it, John 
Harmon; don’t evade it; think it out! 


** When I came back to England, attracted to 
the country with which I had none but most 
miserable associations, by the accounts of my 
fine inheritance that found me abroad, I came 
back, shrinking from my father’s money, shrink- 
ing from my father’s memory, mistrustful of be- 
ing forced on a mercenary wife, mistrustful of 
my father’s intention in thrusting that marriage 
on me, mistrusiful that I was already growing 
avaricious, mistrustful that I was slackening in 
gratitude to the two dear noble honest friends 
who had made the only sunlight in my childish 
life or that of my heart-broken sister. I came 
back, timid, divided in my mind, afraid of my- 
self and every body here, knowing of nothing 
but wretchedness that my father’s wealth had 
ever brought about. Now, stop, and so far 
think it out, John Harmon. Is thatso? That 
is exactly so. 

‘On board serving as third mate was George 
Radfoot. I knew nothing of him. His name 
first became known to me about a week before 
we sailed, through my being accosted by one of 
the ship-agent’s clerks as ‘Mr. Radfoot.’ It 
was one day when I had gone aboard to look to 
my preparations, and the clerk, coming behind 
me as I stood on deck, tapped me on the shoul- 
der and said, ‘Mr. Radfoot, look here,’ referring 
to some papers that he had in his hand. And 
my name first became known to Radfoot, through 
another clerk within a.day or two, and.while the 
ship was yet in port, coming up behind him, tap- 
ping him on the shoulder and beginning, ‘I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Harmon—’ I believe we 
were alike in bulk and stature but not other- 
wise, and that we were not strikingly alike, even 
in those respects, when we were together and 
could be compared. 

‘* However, a sociable word or two on these 
mistakes became an easy introduction’ between 
us, and the weather was hot, and he helped me 
to a cool cabin on deck along-side his own, and 
his first school had been at Brussels as mine had 
been, and he had learned French as [ had learned 
it, and he had a little history of himself to re- 
late—God only knows how much of it true, and 
how much of it false—that had its likeness to 
mine. I had been a seaman too. -So we got to 
be confidential together, and the mote easily 
yet, because he and every one on board had 
known by general rumor what I was making the 
voyage to England for. By such degrees and 
means he came to the knowledge of my uneasi- 
ness of mind, and of its setting at that time in 


166 


the direction of desiring to see and form some 
judgment of my allotted wife, before she could 
possibly know me for myself; also to try Mrs. 
Boffin and give her a glad surprise. So the 
plot was made out of our getting common sail- 
ors’ dresses (as he was able to guide me about 
London), and throwing ourselves in Bella Wil- 
fer’s neighborhood, and trying to put ourselves 
in her way, and doing whatever chance might 
favor on the spot, and seeing what came of it. 
If nothing came of it I should be no worse off, 
and there would merely be a short delay in my 
presenting myself to Lightwood. I have all 
these factsright? Yes. They are all accurate- 
ly right. , 

‘¢His advantage in all this was, that for a 
time I was to be lost. It might be for a day or 
for two days, but I must be lost sight of on land- 
ing, or there would be recognition, anticipation, 
and failure. Therefore, I disembarked with my 
valise in my hand—as Potterson the steward 
and Mr. Jacob Kibble my fellow-passenger af- 
terward remembered—and waited for him in the 
dark by that very Limehouse Church which is 
now behind me. 

‘‘As I had always shunned the port of Lon- 
don, I only knew the church through his point- 
ing out its spire from on board. Perhaps I 
might recall, if it were any good to try, the way 
by which I went to it alone from the river; but 
how we two went from it to Riderhood’s shop I 
don’t know—any more than I know what turns 
we took and doubles we made after we left it. 
The way was purposely confused, no doubt. 

‘*But let me go on thinking the facts out, 
and avoid confusing them with my speculations. 
Whether he took me by a straight way or a 
crooked way, what is that to the purpose now? 
Steady, John Harmon. 

‘*When we stopped at Riderhood’s, and he 
asked that scoundrel a question or two, purport- 
ing to refer only to the lodging-houses in which 
there was accommodation for us had I the least 
suspicion of him? None. Certainly none until 
afterward when I held the clew. I think he 
must have got from Riderhood in a paper the 
drug, or whatever it was, that afterward stupe- 
fied me, but I am far from sure. All I felt safe 
in charging on him to-night was old companion- 
ship in villainy between them. 
guised intimacy, and the character I now know 
Riderhood to bear, made that not at all adven- 
turous. But I am not clear about the drug. 
Thinking out the circumstances on which I found 
my suspicion, they are only two. One: I re- 
member his changing a small folded paper from 
one pocket to another after we came out, which 
he had not touched before. Two: I now know 
Riderhood to have been previously taken up for 
being concerned in the robbery of an unlucky sea- 
man, to whom some sn¢h poison had been given. 

‘It is my conviction that we can not have 
gone a mile from that shop before we came to 
the wall, the dark doorway, the flight of stairs, 
and the room. The night was particularly dark, 
andit rained hard. As I think the circumstances 
back I hear the rain splashing on the stone pave- 


ment of the passage, which was not under cover, | 


The room overlooked the river, or a dock, or a 
creck, and the tide was out. Being possessed 
of the time down to that point, I know by the 


hour that it must Lave been about low water; | ning down, but I knew nothing of up or down — 


Their--andis- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 2) 


but while the coffee was getting ready I drew 
back the curtain (a dark-brown curtain), and, 
looking out, knew by the kind of reflection be- 
low, of the few neighboring lights, that they 
were reflected in tidal mud. oe 

“He had carried under his arm a canvas bag, 
containing asuit of his clothes. I had no change 
of under-clothes with me, as I was to buy slops. 
‘You are very wet, Mr.. Harmon’—I can hear 
him saying—‘and I am quite dry tee this 
good water-proof coat, Put on these clothes-of 
mine, You may find on trying them that they 
will answer your purpose to-morrow, as well as 
the slops you mean to buy, or beiter. While 
you change, Vl hurry the hot coffee.’ When he 
came back I had his clothes on, and there was 
a black man with him, wearing a lincn jacket, 
like a steward, who put the smoking coffee on 
the. table in a tray and never looked at me. I 
am. so far literal and exact? Literal and exact, 
T am certain. 

‘*Now I pass to sick and deranged impres- 
sions; they are so strong, that I rely upon them ; 
but there are spaces between them that I know 
nothing about, and they are not pervaded by any 
idea of time. 

‘*T had drank some coffee, when to my sense 
of sight lie began to swell immensely, and some-. 
thing urged me torushat him. We had astrug- 
gle near the door. He got from me, through my 
not knowing where to strike, in the whirling 
round of the room, and the flashing of flames 
of fire between us. I dropped down. Lying 
helpless on the ground, I was turned over by a 
foot. I was dragged by the neck into a corner. 
I heard men speak together. I was turned over 
by other feet. I saw a figure like myself lying 
dressed in my clothes on a bed. What might 
have been, for any thing I knew, a silence of 
days, weeks, monthis, years, was broken by a yvio- 
lent wrestling of men all over the room. The 
figure like myself was assailed, and my valise 
was in its hand. I was trodden upon and fallen ° 
over. I heard a noise of bluws, and thought it 
was a wood-cutter cutting down a tree. I could 
not have said that my name was John Harmon 
—I could not have thought it—I didn’t know it 
—but when I heard the blows, I thought of the 
wood-cutter and his axe, and had some dead idea 
that I was lying in a forest. 

“*"Phis is still correct? Still correct, with the 
exception that I can not possibly express it to 
myself without using the word I. But it was 
not I. ‘There was no such thing as I, within my 
knowledge. 

‘“It was only after a downward slide through 
something like a tube, and then a great noise 
and a sparkling and crackling as of fires, that 
the consciousness came upon me, ‘This is John 
Harmon drowning! John Harmon, struggle for 
our life. John Harmén, call on Heaven and 
save yourself!’ I think I cried it out aloud ina 
great agony, and then a heavy horrid unintelli- 
gible something vanished, and it was I who was 
struggling there alone in the water. 

‘*T was very weak and faint, frightfully op- 
pressed with drowsiness, and driving fast with 
the tide. Looking over the black water, I saw 
the lights racing past me on the two banks of 


the river, as if they were eager to be gone and ~ 


leave me dying in the dark. The tide was run- — 


“ 


\ 


' 
1 


y 


ry 


y 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


167 


* Dj MORE DEAD THAN ALIVE, 


then. When, guiding myself safely with Heay- 
_ en’s assistance before the tierce set of the water, 
Tat last canght at a boat moored, one of a tier 
of boats at a causeway, I was sucked under 
her, and came’ up, only just alive, on the other 
— gsicle. 
q ‘‘ Was I Jong in the water? Long enough to 
‘|be chilled to the heart, but I don’t know how 
long. Yet the cold was merciful, for it was the 
cold night air and the rain that restored me from 
‘Naturally supposed me to have toppled in, drunk, 
When I crept to the public house it belonged to; 
for [had no notion where I was, and conld not 
articulate—throngh the poison that had made 
~™: insensible having affected mv specch—and [ 
supposed the night to be the previous night, as it 
Was still dark and raining. But I had lost twen- 
_ ty-four hours. 
— “TL have checked the calculation often, and it 
Must have been two nights that I lay recovering 
rey. 


" 


& swoon on the stones of the causeway, They 


| 


in that public house. Letmesee. Yes. Iam 
sure it was while I lay in that bed there, that the 
thought entered my head of turning the danger 
I had passed through to the account of being 
for some time supposed to have disappeared mys- 
teriously, and of proving Bella. The dread of 
our being forced on one another, and perpetuat- 
ing the fate that seemed to have fallen on my 
father’s riches—the fate that they should lead to 
nothing but evil—was strong upon the moral 
timidity that dates from my childhood with my 
poor sister, 

‘As to this hour I can not understand that 


side of the river where I recovered the shore, 


being the opposite side to that on which.I was 
ensnared, I shall never understand it now. Even 
at this moment, while I leave the river behind 
me, going home, I can not conceive that it rolls 
between me and that spot, or that the sea is 
where it is. But this is not thinking it out; 
this is making a leap to the present time. 


168 


**T could not have done it, but for the fortune 
in the water-proof belt round my body. Not a 
great fortune, forty and odd pounds, for the in- 
heritor of a hundred and odd thousand! But it 
was enough. Without it I must have disclosed 
myself. Without it I could never have gone 
to the Exchequer Coffee-house, or taken Mrs. 
Wilfer’s lodgings. 

‘¢ Some twelve days I lived at that hotel, be- 
fore the night when I saw the corpse of Radfvot 
at the Police Station. The inexpressible mental 
horror that I labored under, as one of the conse- 
quences of the poison, makes (the interval seem 
greatly longer, but I know it can not have been 
longer. That suffering has gradually weakened 
and weakened since, and has only come upon 
me by starts, and I hope I am free from it now ; 
but even now I have sometimes to think, con- 
strain myself, and stop before speaking, or I 
could not say the words I want to say. 

** Again I ramble away from thinking it out 
to theend. Itis not so far to the end that I need 
be tempted to break off. Now, on straight! 

‘“‘f examined the newspapers every day for 
tidings that I was missing, but saw none. Going 
out that night to walk (for I kept retired while 
it was light), I found a crowd assembled round 
a placard posted at Whitehall. It described my- 
self, John Harmon, as found dead and mutilated 
in the river under circumstances of strong sus- 
picion, described my dress, described the papers 
in my pockets, and stated where I was lying for 
recognition. In a wild incautious way I hurried 
there, and there—with the horror of the death I 
had escaped, before my eyes in its most appall- 
ing shape, added to the inconceivable horror tor- 
menting me at that time when the poisonous 
stuff was strongest on me—I perceived that Rad- 
foot had been murdered by some unknown hands 
for the money for which’ he would have mur- 
dered me, and that probably we had both been 
shot into the river from the same dark place into 
the same dark tide, when the stream ran deep 
and strong. 

‘That night I almost gave up my mystery, 
though I suspected no one, could offer no in- 
formation, knew absolutely nothing save that the 
murdered man was not I, but Radfoot. Next 
day while I hesitated, and next day while I hes- 
itated, it seemed as if the whole country were 
determined to have me dead. The Inquest de- 
clared me dead, the Government proclaimed me 
dead; I could not listen at my fireside for five 
minutes to the outer noises but it was borne into 
my ears that I was dead. 

‘¢So John Harmon died, and Julius Hand- 
ford disappeared, and John Rokesmith was born. 
John Rokesmith’s intent to-night has been to 
repair a wrong that he could never have imag- 
ined possible, coming to his ears through the 
Lightwood talk related to him, and which he is 
bound by every consideration to remedy. In 
that intent John Rokesmith will persevere, as 
his duty is. 

“* Now, is it all thought out? All to this time? 
Nothing omitted? No, nothing. But beyond 
this time? To think it out through the future 
is a harder though a much shorter task than to 
think it out through the past. John Harmon is 
dead. Should John Harmon come to life? 

“Tf yes, why? If no, why? 

‘* Take yes, first. To enlighten human Jus- 


OUR MUTUAL ¥FRIEND. 


tice concerning the offense of one far beyond it 


who may have a living mother, ‘To enlighten it _ 
with the lights of a stone passage, a flight of 
stairs, a brown’ window-curtain, and a black 
man. ‘To come into possession of my father’s 
money, and wiih it sordidly to buy a beautiful — 
creature whom I love 


reason—but who would as soon love me for my 
own sake as she would love the beggar at the 
corner, What a use for tie money, and how 
worthy of its old misuses! 

*“* Now, take no, The reasons why John Har- 
mon should not come to life. Because he has 
passively allowed these dear old faithful friends 
to pass into possession of the, property. 
he sees them happy with it, making a good use 


of it, effacing the old rust and tarnish on the © 


money, Because they have virtually adopted 
Bella, and will provide for her. Because there 
is affection enough in her nature, and warmth 
enough in her heart, to develop into something 


enduringly good, under favorable conditions, 


Because her faults have been intensified by her — 


place in my father's will, and she is already 
growing better. Because her marriage with 


ai 


John Harmon, after what I have heard from ~ 


her own lips, would be a shocking mockery, of 
which both she and I must always be conscious, 


and which would degrade her in her mind, and © 
Be- 
cause if John Harmon comes to life and does © 
not marry her, the property falls into the very ~ 


me in mine, and each of us in the other’s. 


hands that hold it now. 
‘What would I have? Dead, I have found 
the true friends of my lifetime still as true as 


tender, and as faithful as when I was alive, and — 
making my memory an incentive to good ac- — 
Dead, I have found 
them when they might have slighted my name, — 
and passed greedily over my grave to ease and — 
wealth, lingering by the way, like single-hearted — 
children, to recall their love for me when I was — 
a poor frightened child. Dead, I have heard — 
from the woman who would have been my wife 


tions done in my name, 


if I had lived the revolting truth that I should 


have purchased her, caring nothing for me, as a 

hyd 
If the dead could _ 
know, or do know, how the living use them, who — 
among the hosts of dead has found a more dis- ~ 


Sultan buys a slave. 
‘What would I have? 


interested fidelity on earth than 1? Is not that 
enough for me? If I had come back, these no- 
ble creatures would have welcomed me, wept 
over me, given up every thing to me with joy. | 
I did not come back, and they have passed un- 
spoiled into my place. 
let Bella rest in hers. 

**What course for me then? This. To live 
the same quiet Secretary life, carefully avoiding 


chances of recognition, until they shall have be- _ 


come more accustomed to their altered state, 
and until the great swarm of swindlers under 
many names shall have found newer prey. By 


that time, the method I am establishing through ri 
all the affairs, and with which I will every day 
take new pains to make them both familiar, will — 


be, I may hope, a machine in such working or- 
der as that they can keep it going. I know I_ 
need but ask of their generosity to have. When 
the right time comes, I will ask no more th 
will replace me in my former path of life, a 


[can not help it; reason © 
has nothing to do with it; I love her against | 


Becanse » 


Let them rest in it, and 


TF 


- he may. But John Harmon shall come back 
no more. 
hat I may never, in the days to come afar 
_ off, have any weak misgiving that Bella might, 
- im any contingency, have taken me for my own 
_ Sake if I had plainly asked her, I will plainly 
ask her; proving beyond all question what I al- 
_ ready know too well. And now it is all thought 
Out, from the beginning to the end, and my mind 
is easier.” ; 


So deeply engaged had the living-dead man 
been, in thus communing with himself, that he 
had regarded neither the wind nor the way, and 
had resisted the former as instinctively as he had 
pursued the latter. But being now come into 

* the City, where there was a coach-stand, he stood 
_irresolute whether to go to: his lodgings, or to go 
first to Mr. Bottin’s house. He decided to go 
round by the house, arguing, as he carried his 
over-coat upon his arm, that it was less likely to 
attract notice if left there than if taken to Hol- 
toway: both Mrs. Wilfer and Miss Lavinia be- 
__ ing ravenously curious touching every article of 
which the lodger stood possessed. 
__ Arriving at the house, he found that Mr. and 
Mrs. Boffin were out, but that Miss Wilfer was 
in the drawing-room. Miss Wilfer had remain- 
ed at home, in consequence of not feeling very 
well, and had inquired in the evening if Mr. 
Rokesmith were in his room, 
i “Make my compliments to Miss Wilfer, and 
= say I am here*“now.” 
Miss Wilfer’s compliments came down in re- 
turn, and, if it were not too much trouble, would 
_ Mr. Rokesmith be so kind as to come up before 
he went? 

’ Tt was not too. much trouble, and Mr. Roke- 

_ smith came up. 

~ Oh she looked very pretty, she looked very, 
very pretty! If the father of the late John Har- 

mon had but left his money unconditionally to 

his son, and if his son had but lighted on this 
_ lovable girl for himself, and had the happiness 
to make her loving as well as lovable! 
“Dear me! Are you not well, Mr. Roke- 
smith ?” 

“Yes, quite well. I was sorry to hear, when 

I came in, that you were not.” 
**A mere nothing. I had a headache—gone 
‘now—and was not quite fit for a hot theatre, so 
Istaid at home. I asked you if you were not 
well, because you look so white.” 
~**Dol? Ihave had a busy evening.” 
She was on a low ottoman before the fire, with 
a little shining jewel of a table, and her book 
and her work, beside her. - Ah! what a differ- 
ent life the late John Harmon’s, if it had been 
his happy privilege to take his place upon that 
ottoman, and draw his arm about that waist, 
and say, ‘‘I hope the time has been long with- 
out me? What a Home Goddess you look, my 
darling!” 
__ But the present John Rokesmith, far removed 
_ from the late John Harmon, remained standing 
at a distance. A little distance in respect of 
_ Space, but a great distance in respect of separa- 


tion. 


i Aa OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
Tas ohn Rokesmith shall tread it as contentedly as | 


_ “Mr. Rokesmith,” said Bella, taking up her 
_ work, and inspecting it all round the corners, 

**T wanted to say something to you when I could 
ae 11 


‘169 


have the opportunity, as an explanation why I 


was rude to you the other day. You hav@ no 
right to think ill of me, Sir.” | 

The sharp little way in which she darted a 
look at him, half sensitively injured, and half 
pettishly, would have been very much admired 
by the late John Harmon. 

“You don’t know how well I think 
Miss Wilfer.” 

‘Truly you must have a very high opinion 
of me, Mr. Rokesmith, when you believe that in 
prosperity I neglect and forget my old home.” 

“*Do I believe so ?” 

‘*You did, Sir, at any rate,” returned Bella. 

‘I took the liberty of reminding you of a lit. 
tle omission into which you had fallen—insens- 
ibly and naturally fallen. It was no more than 
that.” ' 

‘And I beg leave to ask you, Mr. Rokesmith,” 
said Bella, ‘‘ why you took that liberty ?—I hope 
there is no offense in the phrase; it is your own, 
remember.” : 

‘* Because Iam truly, deeply, profoundly in- 
terested in you, Miss Wilfer.. Because I wish to 
see you always at your best. Because I—shall 
I go on?” 

‘‘No, Sir,” returned Bella, with a burning 
face, ‘‘ you have said more than enough. I beg 
that you will ot go on. If you have any gen- 
erosity, any honor, you will say no more.” 

The late John Harmon, looking at the prond 
face with the downcast eyes, and at the quick 
breathing as it stirred the fall of bright brown 
hair over the beautiful neck, would probably have 
remained silent. 

“I wish to speak to you, Sir,” said Bella, 
‘fonce for all, and I don’t know how to do it. 
I have sat here all this evening, wishing to speak 
to you, and determining to speak to you, and 
feeling that Inmust. I beg for'a moment’s time.” 

He remained silent, and she remained with 
her face averted, sometimes making a slight 
movement as if she would turn and speak. At 
length she did so. | 

‘* You know how I am situated here, Sir, and 
you know how I am situated at home. I must 
speak to you for myself, since there is no one 
about me whom I could ask to do so. It is not 
gencrous in you, it is not honorable in you, to 
conduet yourself toward me as you do,” 

‘*Ts it ungenerous or dishonorable to be de- 
voted to you; fascinated by you?” 

** Preposterous!” said Bella. 

The late John Harmon might have thought it 
rather a contemptuous and lofty word of repudi- 
ation. | 

‘‘T now feel obliged to go on,” pursued the . 
Secretary, ‘‘ though it were only in self-explana- 
tion and self-defense. I hope, Miss Wilfer, that 
it is not unpardonable-—-even in me—to make an 
honest declaration of an honest devotion to you.” 

*‘An honest declaration!” repeated Bella, 
with emphasis. 

‘*Ts it otherwise ?” 

_ “JT must request, Sir,’ said Bella, taking ref- 
uge in a touch of timely resentment, ‘‘that I 
may not be questioned. You must excuse me 
if I decline to be cross-examined.” . 

“Oh, Miss Wilfer, this is hardly charitable. 


of you, 


J ask you nothing but what your own emphasis 


suggests. However, I waive even that question. 
But what I have declared I take my stand by. 


e 


4 


470 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


os 
o> 


+ tele 


I can not recall the avowal of my earnest and | pating, or knowing beforehand, that I should 


deep attachment to you, and Ido not recall it.’ 
**T reject it, Sir,” said Bella. 


“TI should be blind and deaf if I were not pre- 
Forgive my offense, for it 


pared for the reply. 
carries its punishment with it.” 
‘*What punishment ?” asked Bella. 


‘‘Is my present endurance none? But ex- 
cuse me; I did not mean to cross-examine you 


again.” 

‘You take advantage of a hasty word of 
mine, 
proach, ‘‘ to make me seem—lI don’t know what. 
I spoke without consideration when I used it. 


If that was bad, I am sorry; but you repeat it 


after consideration, and that seems to me to be 
at least no better.. For the rest, I beg it may 
be understood, Mr. Rokesmith, that there is an 
end of this between us, now and forever.” 

**Now and forever,’’ he repeated. 

“Yes. I appeal to you, Sir,” proceeded Bel- 
la with increasing spirit, ‘‘not to pursue me. I 
appeal to you not to take advantage of your po- 
sition in this house to make my position in it 
distressing and disagreeable. I appeal to you 
to discontinue your habit of making your mis- 
placed attentions as plain to Mrs. Botfin as to 
me.” 

“Have I done so?” 

“*T should think you have,” replied Bella. 
“‘In any case it is not your fault if you have 
not, Mr. Rokesmith.” 

‘*T hope you are wrong in that impression. 
I should be very sorry to have justified it. I 
think I have not. For the future there is no 
apprehension. It is all over.” 

“‘T am much relieved to hear it,” said Bella. 
**T have far other views in life, and why should 
you waste your own?” 

‘‘Mine!” said the Secretary. ‘‘ My life!” 

His curious tone caused Bella to glance at the 
curious smile with which he said it. It was 
gone as he glanced back. ‘‘ Pardon me, Miss 
Wilfer,” he proceeded, when their eyes met; 
- you have used some hard words, for which I 
do not doubt you have a justification in your 
mind that I do not understand. Ungenerous 
and dishonorable! In what?” 

‘*T would rather not be asked,” said Bella, 
haughtily looking down. 

‘‘T would rather not ask, but the question is 
imposed upon me. Kindly explain; or if not 
kindly, justly.” 

‘¢Oh, Sir!” said Bella, raising her eyes to his, 
after a little struggle to forbear, ‘‘is it generous 
and honorable to use the power here which your 
favor with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin and your ability 
in your place give you against me?” 

‘* Against you?” 

“Is it generous and hdncrabla to form a plan 
for gradually. bringing their influence to bear 
upon a suit which I have shown you that I do 
not like, and which I tell you that I utterly re- 
ject ?”’ 

: The late John Harmon could have borne a 


9? 


good deal, but he would have been cut to the! 


heart by such a suspicion as this. . 
** Would it be generous and honorable to step 
into your place—if you did so, for I don’t know 


that you did, and I hope you did not—antici-| 


e 


”* said Bella, with a little sting of self-re- 


come here, and designing to take me at this dis-! 
advantage ?” : 

“This mean and cruel diadvatieae 
the Secretary. 

‘¢ Yes,” assented Bella. 

The Secretary kept silence for a little while; ; 
then merely said, ‘‘ You are wholly mistaken, 
Miss Wilfer ; wonder rfully mistaken. I can not 
say, however, that it is your fault. If I deserve 
better things of: you, you do not know it.” : 

‘¢ At least, Sir,’ retorted Bella, with her old 
indignation rising, ‘‘ you know the history of my 
being here at all. I have heard Mr. Boffin say 
that you are master of every line and word of 
that will, as you are master of all his affairs. 
And was it not enough that I should have been 
willed away, like a horse, or a dog, or a bird ; 
but must you too begin to dispose of me in your 
mind, and speculate in me, as soon as I had. 
ceased to be the talk and the laugh of the town ? 
Am I forever to be made the property of stran- 
gers ?” 

‘¢ Believe me,’ ’ returned: the Secretary, “you. 
are wonderfully mistaken.” ¢ ' 

‘‘T should be glad to know it,” answered 
Bella. 

**T doubt if you ever will. Good-night. Of — 
course I shall be careful to conceal any traces 
of this interview from Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, as i 
long as I remain here. ‘Trust me, what you 
have complained of is at an end forever.” ; 

‘‘T am glad I have spoken, then, Mr. Roke- ~ 
smith. It has been painful and @ifficult, but it - 
is done. If I have hurt you, I hope you will 
forgive me. I am inexperienced and impetu- — 
ous, and I have been a little spoiled; but I real- 
ly am not so bad as I dare say I appear, or as 
you think me.” 4 

; 


said e 


He quitted the room when Bella had said this, a 
relenting in her willful-inconsistent way. Left — 
alone, she threw herself back on her ottoman, 
and said, ‘‘I didn’t know the lovely woman was — ‘ 
such a Dr agon!” ‘Then she got up and looked 
in the glass, and said to her image, ‘* You have a 
been positively swelling your features, you little ~ 
fool!” Then she took an impatient walk to the 
other end of the room and back, and said, ‘I 
wish Pa was here to have a talk about an avari- _ 
cious marriage ; but he is better away, poor dear, 
for I know I should pull his hair if he was here.” 
And then she threw her work away, and threw ~ 
her book after it, and sat down and hummed a ‘ 
tune, and hummed it out of tune, and quarreled 
with it. 

And John Rokesmith, what did he ?. 

He went down to his room, and buried John 
Harmon many additional fathoms deep. He 
took his hat and walked out, and, as he went to 
Holloway or any where else—not at all minding 
where—heaped mounds upon mounds of earth 
over John Harmon’s grave. His walking did 
not bring him home until the dawn of day. And 
so busy had he been all night, piling and piling 
weights. upon. weights’of earth.above John Har- 
mon’s grave, that by thattime John Harmonlay __ 
buried under a whole Alpine range; and still 
the Sexton Rokesmith accumulated mountains _ 
over him, lightening his labor with the dirge, 
** Cover him, crush him, keep him down!” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


CHAPTERXIV. 
STRONG OF PURPOSE. 


TH sexton-task of piling earth above John 
Harmon all night long was not conducive to 
sound sleep; but Rokesmith had some broken 
morning rest, and rose strengthened in his pur- 
pose. It was all over now. No ghost should 


trouble Mr. and Mrs. Boffin’s peace; invisible 


‘separate circumstances. 


and voiceless, the ghost should look on for a lit- 
tle while longer at the state of existence out of 
which it had departed, and then should forever 
cease to haunt the scenes in which it had no 


lage. 
, # went over it all again. He had lapsed 
into the condition in which he found himself, as 
many a man lapses into many a condition, with- 
out perceiving the accumulative power of its 
When.in the distrust 
engendered by his wretched childhood and the 
action for evil—never yet for good within his 
knowledge then—of his father and his father’s 
wealth on all within their influence, he conceived 


the idea of his first deception, it was meant to 


meant well toward her. 


be harmless, it was to last but a few hours or 
days, it was to involve in it only the girl so ca- 
priciously forced upon him, and upon whom he 
was so capriciously forced, and it was honestly 
For if he had found 
her unhappy in the prospect of that marriage 


. (through'her heart inclining to another man or 


for any other cause), he would seriously have 


said: ‘‘ Thisis another of the old perverted uses 


of the misery-making money. I will let it go to 


- my and my sister’s only protectors and friends.” 


When the snare into which he fell so outstripped 


his first intention as that he found himself pla- 


carded by the police authorities upon the London 


walls for dead, he confusedly accepted the aid 


- accession to the fortune. 


that fell upon him, without considering how 
firmly it must seem to fix the Boffins in their 
When he saw them, 


‘and knew them, and even from his vantage- 


- ground of inspection could find no flaw in them, 


he asked himself, “ And shall I come to life to 
dispossess such people as these?” There was 
no good to set against the putting of them to 


‘that hard proof. He had heard from Bella’s 


own lips when he stood tapping at the door on 


that night of his taking the lodgings, that the 


marriage would have been on her part thorough- 
ly mercenary. He had since tried her, in his 
own unknown person and supposed station, and 
she not only rejected his advances but resented 
them. Was it for him to have the shame of 
buying her, or the meanness of punishing her ? 
Yet, by coming to life, and accepting the condi- 
tion of the inheritance, he must do the former ; 
and by coming to life and rejecting it, he must 
do the latter. a 

Another consequence that he had never fore- 
shadowed, was the implication of an innocent 
man in his supposed murder. He would obtain 
complete retractation from the accuser, and set 


the wrong right; but clearly the wrong could} 


never have been done if he had never planned a 
deception. Then, whatever inconvenience or 
distress of mind the deception cost him, it was 
manful repentantly to accept’as among its con- 
sequences, and make no complaint. 

Thus John Rokesmith in the morning, and it 


fe 
171 


buried. John Harmon still many fathoms deeper 
than he had been buried in the night. 

Going out earlier than he was accustomed to 
do, he encountered the cherub at the door. The 
cherub’s way was for a certain space his way, 
and they walked together. 

It was impossible not to notice the change in 
the cherub’s appearance. The cherub felt very 
conscious of it, and modestly remarked: ‘**A 
present from my daughter Bella, Mr. Roke- 
smith.” 

The words gave the Secretary a stroke of 
pleasure, for he remembered the fifty pounds, 
and he still loved the girl. No doubt it was 
very weak—it always is very weak, some author- 
ities hold—but he loved the girl. 

‘¢T don’t know whether you happen to have 
read many books of African Travel, Mr. Roke- 
smith ?” said R. W. 

‘¢T have read several.” 

‘¢Well, you know, there’s usually a King 
George, or a King Boy, or a King Sambo, or a 
King Bill, or Bull, or Rum, or Junk, or what- 
ever name the sailors may have happened to 
give him.” 

‘¢ Where?” asked.Rokesmith. 

‘¢ Any where. Any where in Africa, I mean. 
Pretty well every where, I may say; for black 
kings are cheap—and J think’—said R. W., 
with an apologetic air, ‘‘nasty.” 

“‘T am much of your opinion, Mr. Wilfer. 
You were going to say—?” 

‘“‘T was going to say, the king is generally 
dressed in a London hat only, or a Manches- 
ter pair of braces, or one epaulet, or a uniform 
coat with his legs in the sleeves, or something 
of that kind.” 

‘+ Just so,” said the Secretary. 

“ In confidence, I assure you, Mr. Rokesmith,” 
observed the cheerful cherub, “‘that when more 
of my family were at home and to be provided 
for, L used to remind myself immensely of that 
king. You have no idea, as a single man, of 
the difficulty I have had in wearing more than. 
one good article at a time.”’ 

‘“‘T can-easily believe it, Mr. Wilfer.” 

‘¢T only mention it,” said R. W. in the warmth 
of his heart, ‘¢as a proof of the amiable, delicate, 
and considerate affection of my daughter Bella. — 
If she had been a little spoiled, I couldn’t have 
thought so very much of it, under the circum- 
stances. But no, not a bit. And she is so very 
pretty! I hope you agree with me in finding 
her very pretty, Mr. Rokesmith ?” 

‘¢Certainly Ido. Every one must.” 

‘‘T hope so,” said the cherub. ‘‘ Indeed, I 
have no doubt of it. This is a great advance- 
ment for her in life, Mr. Rokesmith. A great 
opening of her prospects.” — 

‘‘Miss Wilfer could have no better friends | 
than Mr. and Mrs. Boffin.” 

‘Impossible! said the grateful cherub. 
‘‘Really I begin to think things are very well 
asthey are. If Mr. John Harmon hadlived—” 

‘¢ He ts better dead,” said the Secretary. 

‘¢ No, I won’t go so far as to say that,” urged 
the cherub, a little remonstrant against the very 
decisive and unpitying tone; ‘ but he mightn’t 
have suited Bella, or Bella mightn’t have suited — 


him, or fifty things, whereas now I-hope-she can 


choose for herself.”’ : 
*¢ Has she—as you place the confidence in me 


172 


-a weary way off, don’t you see? 


Bes hs ss ie 


of speaking on the subject, you will excuse my 
asking—has’ she—perhaps— chosen?” faltered 
the Secretary. 

“Oh dear no!” returned R. W. 

** Young ladies sometimes,” Rokesmith hint- 
ed, ‘‘ choose without mentioning theirehoice to 
their fathers.” 

‘* Not in this case, Mr. Rokesmith. Between 
my daughter Bella and me there is a regular 


league and covenant of confidence. 4{t was rati- 


fied only the other day. The ratification dates 
from—these,’”’ said the cherub, giving a little pull 
at the lappels of his coat and the pockets of his 
trowsers. ‘‘Oh no, she has not chosen.. To be 
sure, young George Sampson, in the days when 


Mr. John Harmon—” 


** Who I wish had never been born!” said the 
Secretary, with a gloomy brow. ~ 

Rt. W. looked at him with surprise, as think- 
ing he had contracted an unaccountable spite 
against the poor deceased, and continued: ‘‘In 
the days when Mr. John Harmon was being 
sought out, young George Sampson certainly 
was hovering about Bella, and Bella let him 
hover. But it never was serivusly thought of, 
and it’s still less than ever to be thought of now. 
For Bella is ambitious, Mr. Rokesmith, and I 
think [may predict wiil marry fortune. This 
time, you see, she wiil have the person and the 
property before her together, and will be able to 
make her choice with her eyes open. This is my 
road. J am yery sorry to part company so soon. 
Good-morning, Sir!” 

The Secretary pursued his way, not very much 
elevated in spirits by this conversation, and, ar- 
riving at the Boffin mansion, found Betty Hig- 
den waiting for him. 

‘**T should thank you kindly, Sir,” said Bet- 
ty, ‘‘if I might make so bold as have a word or 
two wi’ you.” 

She should have as many words as she liked, 
he told her; and took her into his room, and 
made her sit down. 


‘Tis concerning Sloppy, Sir,” said Betty. 


*‘ And that’s how I come here by myself. Not 
wishing him to know what I’m a-going to say to 
you, I got the start of him early and walked 
up.” 

_ “You have wonderful energy,” returned Roke- 
smith. ‘* You are as young as I am.” 

Betty Higden gravely shook her head. ‘TJ 
am strong for my time of Kfe, Sir, but not young, 
thank the Lord!” 

“Are you thankful for not being young ?” 

“*Yes, Sir. If I was young, it would all have 
to be gone through again, and the end would be 
But never 
mind me; ’tis concerning Sloppy.” 

‘*And what about him, Betty ?” 

‘eTis just this, Sir. It can’t be reasoned out 
of his head by any powers of mine but what that 
he can do right by your kind lady and gentle- 
man and do his work for me, both together. 
Now he can’t. To give himself up to being put 
in the way of arning.a good living and getting 
on, he must give me up. Well; he won't.” 

‘*T respect him for it,” said Rokesmith. 

** Do ye, Sir? I don’t know but what I do 


myself. Still that don’t make it right to let him. 


have his way. So as he won’t give me up, I’m 
a-going to give him up.” 
‘* How, Betty ?” 


. 


$ fs Be 7 


OUR: MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘“J’m a-going to run away from him.” —- 
With an astonishgd.gook at the indomitable 
old face and the bight eyes the Secretary re- 
peated, ‘‘Run away from him?” ; 
‘**Yes, Sir,” said Betty, with one nod. And 
in the nod and in the firm set of her mouth 
there was a vigor of purpose not to be doubted. 
‘*Comeé, come!” said the Secretary. ‘We 
must talk about this. Let us take our time over 
it, and try to get at the true sense of the case 
and the true course, by degrees.” co 
‘** Now, lookee here, my dear,” returned old 


Betty—‘‘asking your excuse for being so fa- — 


your grandmother twice over. © Now, logkee 
here. Tis a poor living and a hard as is t®#be 
got out of this‘-work that ’m a doing now, and 
but for Sloppy I don’t know as I should have 
held to it this long. But it did just keep us on, 
the two together. Now that I’m alone—with 
even Johnny ‘gone—I’d far sooner be upon my 


| feet and tiring of myself out, than a sitting fold- 


ing and folding by the fire. And Ill tell you 
why. ‘There’s a deadness steals over me at 
times, that the kind of life favors and I don’t 
like. Now, I seem to have Johnny in my arms 
—now, his mother—now, his mother’s mother— 
now, I seem to be a child myself, a lying once 
again in the arms of my own mother—then [I 
get numbed, thought and senses, till I start out 
of my seat, afeerd that ’'m a growing like the 
poor old people that they brick up in the Unions, 
as you may sometimes see when they let ’em out 
of the four walls to have a warm in the sun, 
crawling quite scared about the streets. I was 
a nimble girl, and have always been a active 
body, as I told your lady, first time ever I see 
her good face. I can still walk twenty mile if I 
am put toit. I’d far better be a walking than a 
getting numbed and dreary. I’m a good fair 
knitter, and can make many little things to sell. 
The loan from your lady and gentleman of . 
twenty shillings to fit out a basket with would 
be a fortune for me. ‘Trudging round the coun- 
try and tiring of myself out, I shall keep the 
deadness off, and get my own bread by my own 
labor. And what more can I want?” — 

‘* And this is your plan,” said the Secretary, 

‘for running away ?”” 

_ Show me a better! My deary, show me a 
better! Why, I know very well,” said old Betty 
Higden, ‘‘and you know very well, that your 
lady and gentleman would set me up like a 
queen for the rest of my life, if so be that we 
could make it right among us to have it so. 
But we can’t make it right among us to have it 
so. I’ve never took charity yet, nor yet has any 
one belonging to me. And it would be forsak- 
ing of myself indeed, and forsaking of my chil- 
dren dead and gone, and forsaking of their chil- 
dren dead and gone, to set up a contradiction 
now at last.” 

‘*Tt might come to be justifiable and unavoid- 
able at last,” the Secretary gently hinted, witha 
slight stress on the word. 


“T hope it never will! It ain’t that I mean 


to give offense by being anyways proud,” said 
the old creature, simply, ‘‘ but that I want to 
be of a piece like, and helpful of myself right 
through to my death.” Hire at 

‘** And to be sure,” added the Secretary, as a 
comfort for her, ‘Sloppy will be eagerly looking _ 


nd 


Can Cas ae a 1 
< : : + 


forward to his opportunity of being to you what 
you have been to him.” 


Trust him for that, Sir!” said Betty, cheer- | 


fully. ‘* Though he had need to be something 
quick about it, for I'm a getting to be an old 
one. But I’m a strong one too, and travel and 
weather never hurt me yet! Now, be so kind 
as speak for me to your lady and gentleman, 
and tell ’em what I ask ‘of their good friendli- 
ness to let me do, and‘why I ask it,” 

The Secretary felt that there was no gain- 
saying what was urged by this brave old heroine, 
and he presently repaired to Mrs. Boffin and rec- 
ommended her to let Betty Higden have her 
way, at all events for the time. ‘‘It would be 
far more satisfactory to your kind heart, I know,” 
he said, ‘‘to provide for her, but @t may be a 
_ duty to respect this independent spirit.” Mrs. 

- Boffin was not proof against the consideration 
set before her. She and her husband had 


worked too, and had brought their simple faith: 


and honor clean ont of dust-heaps. If they 
owed a duty to Betty Higden, of a surety that 
duty must be done. 


**But, Betty,” said Mrs. Boffin, when she ac- | 
__ companied John Rokesmith back to his room, 


and shone upon her with the light of her radiant 
face, ‘‘ granted all else, I think [ wouldn’t run 
away.” ; . 

“"T would come easier to Sloppy,” said Mrs. 
Higden, shaking her head. <“’I'would come 
€asier tome too. But ’tis as you please.” 

‘*When would you go?” | 

“Now,” was the bright and ready answer. 
“To-day, my deary, to-morrow. Bless ye, I 
am used to it. I know many parts of the coun- 
try well. When nothing else was to be done I 
have worked in many a market-garden afore 
now, and in many a hop-garden too.” 

“If I give my consent to your going, Betty— 
which Mr. Rokesmith thinks I ought to do—” 

Betty thanked him with a grateful courtesy. 

**__We must not lose sight of you. We must 
not let you pass out of our knowledge. We 
must know all about you.” 

“Yes, my deary, but not through letter- 
writing, because letter-writing—indeed, writing 
of most sorts—hadn’t much. come up for such as 
me when I was young. But I shall be to and 
fro. No fear of my missing a chance of giving 
myself a sight of your reviving face. Besides,” 
said Betty, with logieal good faith, ‘¢I shall have 
a debt to pay off, by littles, and naturally that 
would bring me back if nothing else would.” 

‘Must it be done?” asked Mrs. Boffin, still 

reluctant, of the Secretary. 
~  “T think it must.” 

After more discussion it was agreed that it 
should be done, and Mrs. Boffin summoned 
Bella to note down the little purchases that were 
necessary to set Betty up in trade, ‘*Don’t ye 
be timorous for me, my dear,” said the stanch 
old heart, observant of Bella’s face: ‘‘when I 
take my seat with my work, clean and busy and 
fresh, in a country market-place, I shall turn a 
sixpence as sure as ever a farmer’s wife there.” 

The Secretary took that opportunity of touch- 
ing on the practical question of Mr. Sloppy’s 
capabilities. He would have made a wonderful 
_cabinet-maker, said Mrs. Higden, ‘‘if-there-had 
been the money to put him to it.” She had seen 

him handle tools that he had borrowed to mend 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


173 


the mangle, or to knock.a broken piece of furni- 
ture together, in a surprising manner. As to 
constructing toys for the Minders, out of no- 
thing, he had done that daily. And once as 
many as a dozen people had got together in the 
lane to see the neatness with which he fitted the 
broken pieces of a foreign monkey’s musical in-. 
strument. ‘*’That’s well,” said the Secretary, 
‘Tt will not be hard to find a trade for him.” 

John Harmon being buried under mountains 
now, the Secretary that very same day set him- 
self to finish his affairs and have done with him. 
He drew up an ample declaration, to be signed 
by Rogue Riderhood (knowing he could get his 
signature to it, by making him another and 
much shorter evening call), and then considered 
to whom should he give the document? To 
Hexam’s son, or daughter? Resolved speedily, 
to the daughter. But it would be safer to avoid 
seeing the daughter; because the son had seen 
Julius Handford, and—he could not be too care- 
ful—there might possibly be some comparison 
of notes between the son and daughter, which 
woulgl awaken slumbering suspicion and lead to 
consequences. ‘I might even,” he reflected, 
‘*be apprehended as having been concerned in 
my own murder!” ‘Therefore, best to send it to 
the daughter under cover by the post. Pleasant 
Riderhood had undertaken to find out where 
she lived, and it was not necessary that it should 
be attended by a single word of explanation. So 
far, straight, 

But all that he knew of the daughter he de- 
rived from Mrs. Boffin’s accounts of what she 
heard from Mr. Lightwood, who seemed to have 
a reputation for his manner of relating a story, 
and to have made this story quite his own. It 
interested him, and he would like to have the 
means of knowing more—as, for instance, that 
she received the exonerating paper, and that it 
satisfied her—by opening some channel alto- 
gether independent of Lightwood: who likewise 
had seen Julius Handford, who had publicly ad- 
vertised for Julius Handford, and whom of all 
men he, the Secretary, most avoided. ‘But 
with whom the common course of things might 
bring the in a moment face to face any day in 
the week or any hour in the day.” 

Now, to cast about for some likely means of 
opening such a channel. The boy, Hexam, was 
training for and with a schoolmaster. The Sec- 
retary knew it, because his sister’s share in that 
disposal of him seemed to be the ‘best part of 
Lightwood’s account of the family. This young 
fellow, Sloppy, stood in need of some instruction. 
If he, the Secretary, engaged that schoolmaster 
to impart it to him the channel might be opened. 
The next point was, did Mrs. Boffin know the 
schoolmaster’s name? No, but she knew where 
the school was. Quite enough. Promptly the 
Secretary wrote to the master of that school, 


‘and that very evening Bradley Headstone an- 


swered in person. 

The Secretary stated to the schoolmaster how 
the object was, to send to him for certain occa- 
sional evening instruction, a youth whom Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin wished to help to an industri- 
ous and useful place in life. The schoolmaster 
was willing to undertake the charge of such a 
pupil. The Secretary inquired on what terms? 
The schoolmaster stated on what terms. Agreed 
and disposed of, 


174 


“¢May I ask, Sir,” said Bradley Headstone, 
‘<to whose good opinion I owe a recommenda- 
tion to you?” 

““You should know that I am not the princi- 
pal here. I am Mr. Boffin’s Secretary. Mr. 
Boffin is a gentleman who inherited a property 
of which you may have heard some public men- 
tion: the Harmon property.” 

‘‘Mr. Harmon,” said Bradley: who would 
have been a great deal more at a loss than he 
was, if he had known to whom he spoke: ‘‘ was 
murdered, and found in the river.” 

‘¢ Was murdered, and found in the river.” 

‘*Tt was not—” 

‘‘No,” interposed the Secretary, smiling, ‘‘it 
was not he who recommended you. Mr. Boffin 
heard of you through a certain Mr. Lightwood, 
I think you know Mr. Lightwood, or know of 
him ?” 


‘¢T know as much of him as I wish to know, » 


Sir. I have no acquaintance with Mr. Light- 
wood, and I desire none. I have no objection 
to Mr. Lightwood, but I have a particular ob- 
jection to some of Mr. Lightwood’s friends—in 
short, to one of Mr. Lightwood’s friends. His 
great friend.” 


He could hardly get the words out, even then | 


and there, so fierce did he grow (though keep- 
ing himself down witli infinite pains of repres- 
sion), when the careless and contemptuous bear- 
ing of Eugene*Wrayburn rose before his mind, 

The Secretary saw there was a strong feeling 
here on some sore point, and he would have 
made a diversion from it, but for Bradley’s hold- 
ing to it in his cumbersome way. 

‘‘T have no objection to mention the friend by 
name,” he said, doggedly. ‘‘The person I ob- 
ject to is Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.” 

The Secretary remembered him. In his dis- 
turbed recollection of that night when he was 
striving against the drugged drink, there was 
but a dim image of Eugene’s person; but he re- 
membered his name, and his manner of speak- 
ing, and how he had gone with them to view the 
body, and where he had stood, and what he had 
said. 

‘*Pray, Mr. Headstone, what is the name,” 
he asked, again trying to make a diversion, 
‘Cof young Hexam’s sister ?” 

‘¢Her name is Lizzie,” said the schoolmaster, 
with a strong contraction of his whole face. 

‘« She is a young woman of a remarkable char- 
acter; is she not?” . 

‘‘She is sufficiently remarkable to be very 
superior to Mr. Eugene Wrayburn—though an 
ordinary person might be that,’’ said the school- 
master; ‘‘and I hope you will not think it im- 
pertinent in me, Sir, to ask why you put the two 
names together ?” 

‘‘By mere accident,” returned the Secretary. 
‘¢Observing that Mr. Wrayburn was a disagree- 
able subject with you, I tried to get away from 
it: though not very successfully, it would ap- 
pear.” 

‘‘Do you know Mr. Wrayburn, Sir ?” 

NO ty 

‘«Then perhaps the names can not be put to- 


gether on'the authority of any representation of 


his?” 
‘¢ Certainly not.” 
‘*T took the liberty to ask,” said Bradley, aft- 


er casting his eyes on the ground, ‘‘ because he 


wood, that he was your pupil. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


is capable of making any representation, in the 
swaggering levity of his insolence. I-——I hope 
you will not misunderstand me, Sir. IJ—I am 
much interested in this brother and sister, and 
the subject awakens very strong feelings within 
me. Very, very strong feelings.” With a shak- 
ing hand Bradley took out his handkerchief and 
wiped his brow. : . 

The Secretary thought, as he glanced at the 
schoolmaster’s face, that he had opened a chan- 
nel here indeed, and that it was an unexpect- 
edly dark and deep and stormy one, and diffi- 
cult to sound. All at once, in the midst of his ~ 
turbulent emotions, Bradley stopped and seemed’ 
to challenge his look. Much as though-he sud- 
denly asked him, ‘‘ What do you see in me?” 

‘‘The brether, young Hexam, was your real 
recommendation here,” said the Secretary, quiet- 
ly going back to the point; ‘‘Mr. and Mrs, 
Boffin happening to know, through Mr. Light-) 
Any thing that 
I ask respecting the brother and sister, or either 
of them, I ask for myself, out of my own inter- 
est in the subject, and not in my official char- 
acter, or on Mr. Boffin’s behalf. How I come 
to be interested I need not explain. You know 
the father’s connection with the discovery of Mr. 
Harmon’s body.” 

‘¢Sir,” replied Bradley, very restlessly indeed, 
‘¢T know all the circumstances of that case.” 

‘‘Pray tell me, Mr. Headstone,” said the 
Secretary. ‘Does the sister suffer under any 
stigma because of the impossible accusation— 
groundless would be a better word—that was 
made against the father, and substantially with- 
drawn ?” 

‘‘No, Sir,” returned Bradley, with a kind of 
anger. 

‘‘T am very glad to hear it.” 

‘The sister,” said Bradley, separating his 
words over-carefully, and speaking as if he were 
repeating them from a book, ‘‘suffers under no 
reproach that repels a man of unimpeachable 
character, who has made for himself every step 
of his way in life, from placing her in his own 
station. I will not say, raising her to his own 
station; I say, placing her init. The sister la- 
bors under no reproach, unless she should un- 
fortunately make it for herself. When such a 
man is not deterred from regarding her as his 
equal, and when he has convinced himself that 
there is no blemish on her, I think the fact must 


‘| be taken to be pretty expressive.” 


‘¢ And there is such.a man?”»said the Secre- 
tary. 

Bradley Headstone knotted his brows, and 
squared his large lower jaw, and fixed his eyes 
on the ground with an air of determination that 
seemed unnecessary to the occasion, as he re- 
plied: ‘‘ And there is such a man.” : 

The Secretary had no reason or excuse for 
prolonging the conversation, and it ended here. 
Within three hours the oakum-headed appari- 
tion once more dived into the Leaving Shop, 
and that night Rogue Riderhood’s recantation 
lay in the post-office, addressed under cover to 
Lizzie Hexam at her right address. 

All these proceedings occupied John Roke- 
smith so much that it was not until the follow- — 
ing day that he saw Bella again... It seemed — 
then to be tacitly understood between them that 
they were to be as distantly easy as they could, © 


175 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


THE BOOFER LADY, 


176 


without attracting the-attention of Mr, and Mrs. 
Boffin to any marked change in their manner. 
The fitting out of old Betty Higden was favora- 
ble to this, as keeping Bella engaged and inter- 
ested, and as occupying the general attention. 

‘¢T think,” said Rokesmith, when they all 
stood about her, while she packed her tidy bask- 
et—except Bella, who was busily helping on her 
knees at the chair on which it stood; ‘‘that at 
least you might keep a letter in your pocket, 
Mrs. Higden, which I would write for you and 
date from here, merely stating, in the names of 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, that they are your friends ; 
—I won't say patrons, because they wouldn’t like 
it.” 

‘¢No, no, no,” said Mr. Boffin; ‘‘no patron- 
izing! Let’s keep out of that, whatever we come 
to.” 

‘¢There’s more than enough of that about, 
without us; ain’t there, Noddy?” said Mrs. Bof- 
fin. 

‘‘T believe you, old lady!” returned the Gold- 
en Dustman. ‘‘Overmuch indeed!” 

“But people sometimes like to be patronized ; 
don’t they, Sir?” asked Bella, looking up. 

“T don't. And if they do, my dear, they ought 
to learn better,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ Patrons and 
Patronesses, and Vice-Patrons and Vice-Patron- 
esses, and Deceased Patrons and Deceased Pa- 
tronesses, and: Ex-Vice-Patrons and Ex-Vice- 
Patronesses, what does it all mean in the books 
of the Charities that come pouring in on Roke- 
smith as he sits among ’em pretty well up to his 
neck! If Mr. Tom Noakes gives his five shil- 
lings ain’t he a Patron, and if Mrs. Jack Styles 
gives her five shillings ain’t she a Patroness? 
What escent it allabout? If it ain’t stark 
staring Impudence, what do you call it?” 
“Don’t be warm, Noddy,” Mrs. Boffin urged. 
‘¢Warm!” cried Mr. Boffin. ‘It’s enough 
to make a man smoking hot. I can’t gorany 
where without being Patronized. I don’t want 
to be Patronized. If I buy a ticket for a Flower 
Show, or a Music Show, or any sort of Show, 
and pay pretty heavy for it, why am I to be Pa- 
troned and Patronessed as if the Patrons and 
Patronesses treated me? If there’s a good thing 
to be dong, can’t it be done on its own merits ? 
Tf there’s a bad thing to be done, can it ever be 
Patroned anl Patronessed right? Yet*when a 
new Institution’s going to be built, it seems to 
me that the bricks and mortar ain’t made of 
half so much consequence as the Patrons and 
Patronesses; no, nor yet the objects. I wish 
somebody would tell me whether other countries 
get Patronized to any thing like the extent of 
this one! And as to the Patrons and Patron- 
esses themselves, I wonder they’re not ashamed 
of themselves. They ain’t Pills, or Hair-Wash- 
es, or Invigorating Nervous Essences, to be puffed 
in that way !” 

Having delivered himself of these remarks, 
Mr. Boffin took a trot, according to his usual 
custom, and trotted back to the spot from which 
he had started. 

*¢ As to the letter, Rokesmith,” said Mr. Bof- 
fin, ‘‘you’re as right as a trivet. Give her the 
letter, make her take the letter, put it in her 
pocket by violence. She might fall sick.—You 
know you might fall sick,” said Mr. Boffin, 
‘¢TDon’t deny it, Mrs. Higden, in your obstinacy ; 
you know you might.” 


‘ing abided by him. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Old Betty laughed, and said that she would 
take the letter and be thankful. 

‘“'That’s right!” said Mr. Boffin. 
That’s sensible. 
(for we never thought of it), but to Mr. Roke- 
smith.” 


‘Come! 


And don’t.be thankful to. us’ 


The letter was written, and read to her, and. © 


given to her. 

‘‘Now, how do you feel?” said Mr. Boffin. 
*¢Do you like it?” . 

‘‘The letter, Sir?” said Betty. 
beautiful letter !” : 

‘¢No, no, no; not the letter,” said Mr. Bof- 
fin; ‘*the idea, Are you sure you're strong 
enotgh to carry out the idea?” 

‘“‘T shall be stronger, and keep the deadness 
off better, this way, than any way left open to 
me, Sir.” 

‘‘Don’t say than any way left open, you 
know,” urged Mr. Boffin; “because there are 
ways without end. A. housekeeper would be 
acceptable over yonder at the Bower, for in- 
stance. Wouldn’t you like to see the Bower, 
and know a retired literary man of the name of 
Weegg that lives there—with a wooden leg ?” 

Old Betty was proof even against this tempt- 
ation, and fell to adjusting her black bonnet and 
shawl. 

‘“‘T wouldn’t let you go, now it comes to this, 
after all,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘if I didn’t hope that 
it may make a man and a workman of Sloppy, 
in as short a time as ever a man and a work- 
man was made yet. Why, what have you got 
there, Betty? Not a doll?” 

It was the man in the Guards who had been 
on duty over Johnny's bed. ‘The solitary old 
woman showed what it was, and put it up qui- 
etly in her dress. Then she gratefully took 
leave of Mrs. Boffin, and of Mr. Boflin, and of 
Rokesmith, and then put her old withered arms 
round Bella’s young and blooming neck, and 
said, repeating Johnny’s words; ‘* A kiss for.the 
boofer lady.” 

The Secretary looked on from a doorway at 


“* Ay, it’s.ia 


{the boofer lady thus encircled, and still looked 


on at the boofer lady standing alone there, when 
the determined old figure with its steady bright 
eyes was trudging through the streets, away from 
paralysis and pauperism. 


A to sts BI ie SS 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE WHOLE CASE SO FAR. 


Brapiey Heapstone held fast by that other 
interview he was to have with Lizzie Hexam. 
In stipulating for it he had been impelled by a 
feeling little short of desperation, and the feel- 
It was very soon after his 
interview with the Secretary that he and Char- 
ley Hexam set out one leaden evening, not un- 
noticed by Miss Peecher, to have this desperate 
interview accomplished. 


“¢That dolls’ dress-maker,” said Bradley, ‘fis _ 


favorable neither to me nor to you, Hexam.” 

‘“A pert crooked little chit, Mr. Headstone! 
I knew she would put herself in the way, if she 
could, and would be sure tostrike in with some- 
thing impertinent. It was on that account that 
I proposed our going to the City to-night and 
meeting my sister.” 


_§So I supposed,” said Bradley, getting hia 


D 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


\ 
\ 
\ 


\gloves on his nervous hands as he walked. ‘So 
supposed.” 

\** Nobody but my sister,” pursued Charley, 
‘would have found out such an extraordinary 
companion. She has done it in a ridiculous 
fancy of giving herself up to another. She told 
me so that night when we went there.” | 

** Why should she give herself up to the dress- 
maker?” asked Bradley. 

“Qh!” said the boy; coloring. ‘One of her 
romantic ideas! TI tried to convince her so, but 
I didn’t succeed. However, what we have got 
to do, is, to sueceed to-night, Mr. Headstone, 

-and then all the rest follows.” 
- You are still sanguine, Hexam.” 

‘Certainly Iam, Sir. Why, we have every 
thing on our side.” 

** Except your sister, perhaps,” thought Brad- 
ley. But he only gloomily thought it, and ‘said 
nothing. 

‘Every thing on our side,” repeated the boy 
with boyish confidence. ‘‘ Respectability, an ex- 
cellent connection for me, common sense, every 
thing !” 

*“To be sure, your sister has always shown 

‘herself a devoted sister,” said Bradley, willing 
to sustain himself on even that low ground of 
hope. 

‘* Naturally, Mr. Headstone, I have a good 
deal of influence with her. And now that you 
have honored me with your confidence and spoken 
to me first, I say again, we have every thing on 
our side.” 

And Bradley thought again, “Except your 
‘sister, perhaps.” 

A gray dusty withered evening in London city 
has not a hopeful aspect. ‘The closed warehouses 
and offices have an air of death about them, and 
the national dread of color has an air of mourn- 

Ing. ‘The towers and steeples of the many house- 
encompassed churches, dark and dingy as the 
sky that seems descending on them, are no re- 
lief to the general gloom; asun-dial on a church- 
wall has the look, in its useless black shade, of 
having failed in its business enterprise and stopped 

payment forever: melancholy waifs and strays 
of housekeepers and porters sweep melancholy 

- waifs and strays of papers and pins into the ken- 

nels, and other more melancholy waifs and strays 
explore them, searching and stooping and poking 
for any thing to sell. The set of humanity ont- 
ward from the City is as a set of prisoners de- 
parting from jail, and dismal Newgate seems 
quite as fit a stronghold for the mighty Lord 
Mayor as his own state-dwelling. 


On such an evening, when the city grit gets, 


into the hair and eyes and skin, and’ when the 
fallen leaves of the few unhappy city trees grind 
down in corners under wheels of wind, the school- 
master and the pupil emerged upon the Leaden- 
hall_ Street region, spying eastward for Lizzie. 
Being something too soon in their arrival they 
lurked-at“a corner, waiting for her to appéar. 
“The best-looking ‘among-us: will not-loek-¥ery 
well lurking at a corner, and Bradley came out 
of that disadvantage very poorly indeed. 

™* “Here she comes, Mr. Headstone! Let us 
go forward and meet her.” 
_ As they advanced she saw them coming, and 
seemed rather troubled. But she greeted her 
brother with the usual warmth, and touched the 
extended hand of Bradley. 


eas: 
., an * ¢ bs 4 


YP 


. “* Why, where are you going, Charley, dear ?” 
she asked him then. 

‘‘ Nowhere. We came on purpose to meet 
you.” 

‘*'To meet me, Charley ?” 

“*Yes.. We are going to walk with you. But 
don’t let us take the great leading streets where 
every one walks, and we can’t hear ourselves 
speak. “Let us go by the quiet backways. Here’s 
a large paved court by this church, and quiet, 
too. Let us go up here.” 

‘* But it’s not in the way, Charley.” 

“Yes it is,” said the boy, petulantly. 
in my way, and my way is yours.” 

She had not released his hand, and, still hold- 
ing it, looked at him with a kind of appeal. He 
avoided her eyes, under pretense of saying, 
**Come along, Mr. Headstone.” Bradley walked 
at his side—not at hers—and the brother and 
sister walked hand inhand. The court brought: 
them to a church-yard; a paved square court, 
with a raised bank of earth about breast high, in 
the middle, inclosed by iron rails. Here, con- 
veniently and healthfully elevated above the level 
of the living, were the dead, and the tombstones ; 
some of the latter droopingly inclined from the 
perpendicular, as if they were ashamed of the 
lies they told. 

They paced the whole of this place once, in a 
constrained and uncomfortable manner, when 
the boy stopped and said: 

** Lizzie, Mr. Headstone has something to say 
toyou. I don’t wish to be an interruption either 
to him or to you, and so I'll go and take a little 
stroll and come back. I know in a general way 
what Mr. Headstone intends to say, and I very 
highly approve of it, as I hope—and indeed I do 
not doubt—you will. I needn’t tell you, Lizzie, 
that I am under great obligations to Mr. Head- 
stone, and that I am very anxious for Mr. Head- 
stone to succeed in all he undertakes. AsI hope 
—and as, indeed, I don’t doubt—you must be.” 

‘‘Chatley,” returned his sister, detaining his 
hand as he withdrew it, ‘*I think you had bet- 
ter stay. I think Mr. Headstone had better not 
say what he thinks of saying.” 

‘“Why, how do you know what it is?” re- 
turned the boy. 

‘* Perhaps I don’t, but—” k 

** Perhaps you don’t? No, Liz, I should think 

not. If you knew what it was you would’ give 
me a very different answer. ‘There; let go; be 
sensible. I wonder you don’t remember that Mr. 
eadstone is looking on.” 
She allowed him to separate himself from her, 
and he, after saying, ‘‘ Now, Liz, be-a rational 
girl and a good sister,” walked away. She re- 
mained standing alone with Bradley Headstone, 
and it was not until she raised her. eyes that he 
spoke. 

“I said,” he began, ‘‘when I saw you last, 
that there was something. unexplained, which 
might perhaps influence you. I have come this 
evening to explain it. I hope you will not judge 
of me by my hesitating manner when I speak to 
you. You see me at my greatest disadvantage, 
It is most unfortunate for me that I wish you to 
see me at my best, and that I know you see’me 
at my worst.”’ 

She moved slowly on when he paused, and he 
moved slowly on beside her. ~ | 

‘It seems egotistical to begin by saying so 


eT t's 


178 


much about myself,” he resumed, ‘‘ but whatever 
I say to you seems, even in my own ears, below 
what I want to say, and different from what I 
want to say. I can’thelpit. So itis. You are 
the ruin of me.” 

She started at the passionate sound of the last 
words, and at the passionate action of his hands, 
with which they were accompanied. 

‘Yes! youare the ruin—the ruin—the ruin— 
of me. ‘I have no resources in myself, I have no 
confidence in myself, I have no government of 
myself when you are near me or in my thoughts. 
And you are always in my thoughts now. I 
have never been quit of you since I first saw you. 
Oh, that was a wretched day for me! That was 
a wretched, miserable day !” 

A touch of pity for him mingled with her. dis- 
like of him, and she said: ‘‘ Mr. Headstone, I am 
grieved to have done you any harm, but I have 
never meant it.” 

_ ‘¢There!” he cried, despairingly. ‘‘Now I 
seem to have reproached you, instead of reveal- 
ing to you the state of my own mind! Bear 
with me. I am always wrong when you are in 
question. It is my doom.” 

Struggling with himself, and by times looking 
up at the deserted windows of the houses as if 
there could be any thing written in their grimy 
panes that would help him, he paced the whole 
pavement at her side before he spoke again. 

“‘T must try to give expression to what is in 
my mind; it shall and must be spoken. Though 
you see me so confounded—though you strike 
me so helpless—I ask you to believe that there 
are many people who think well of me; that 
there are some people who highly esteem me ; 
that I have in my way won a station which is 
considered worth winning.” 

‘¢Surely, Mr. Headstone, I do believe it. 
Surely I have always known it from Charley.” 

“TI ask you to believe that if I were to offer 
my home such as it is, my‘station such as it is, 
my affections such as they are, to any 8ne of the 
best considered, and best qualified, and most 
distinguished, among the young women engaged 
in my calling, they would probably be accepted. 
Even readily accepted.” 

‘¢T do not doubt it,” said Lizzie, with her eyes 
upon the ground. 

‘‘T have sometimes had it in my thoughts to 
make that offer and to settle down as many men 
of my class do: I on the one side of a school, 
my wife on the other, both of us interested in 
the same work.” 

‘¢Why have you not done so?” asked Lizzie 
Hexam. ‘* Why do you not do so ?” 

‘‘Far better that never did! The only one 
grain of comfort I have had these many weeks,” 
he said, always speaking passionately, and, when 
most emphatic, repeating that former action of 
his hands, which was like flinging his heart’s- 
blood down before her in drops upon the pave- 
ment stones; “the only one grain of comfort I 
have had these many weeks is, that I never did. 
For if I had, and if the same’spell had come upon 
me for my ruin, I know I should have broken 
that tie asunder as if it had been thread.” 

She glanced at him with a glance of fear, and 
a shrinking gesture. He answered, as if she had 

spoken. 

‘No! It would not have been voluntary on 
-my part, any more than it is voluntary in me to 


| loose, was absolutely terrible. 


‘vain, and which overmasters me. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


be here now. You draw me to you. If I were 
shut up in a strong prison you would draw me 
out.. I should break through the wall to come 
to you. If I were lying on asick bed you would 
draw me up—to stagger to your feet and fall 
there.” gh 

The wild energy of the man, now quite let 
He stopped and 
laid his hand upon a piece of the coping of the 
burial-ground inclosure, as.if he would have 
dislodged the stone. 

‘‘No man knows till the time comes what 
depths are within him. To some men it never’ 
comes; let them rest and be thankful! To me, 
you brought it; on me, you forced it; and the 
bottom of this raging sea,” striking himself upon 
the breast, ‘‘has been heaved up ever since.” 

“Mr. Headstone, I have heard enough. Let 
me stop you here. It will be better for you and 
better for me. Let us find my brother.” 

‘‘Not yet. It shall and must be spoken. I 
have been in torments ever since I stopped short 
of it before. You are alarmed. It is another of 
my miseries that I can not speak to you or speak 
of you without stumbling at every syllable, unless 
I let the check go altogether and run mad. Here 
is a man lighting the lamps. He will be gone 
directly. JI entreat of you let us walk round this 
place again. You have no reason to look alarm- 
ed; I can restrain myself, and I will.” 

She yitlded to the entreaty—how could she do 
otherwise !—and they paced the stones in silence. 
One by one the lights leaped up, making the cold 
gray church-tower more remote, and they were 
alone again. He said no more until they had — 
regained the spot where he had broken off; 
there, he again stood still, and again grasped ~ 
the stone. In saying what he said then he never 
looked at her; but looked at it and wrenched at 
it. 


Les 


‘You know what I am going to say. I love 
you. What other men may mean when they ~ 


use that expression I can not tell; what 7 mean 


is, that I am under the influence of some tre-- 

mendous attraction which I have resisted: in 

You could , 
draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, 

you could draw me to the gallows, you could 

draw me to any death, you could draw me to — 
any thing I have most avoided, you could draw | 
me to any exposure and disgrace. This and 

the confusion of my thoughts, so that I.am fit 

for nothing, is what I mean by your being the 

ruin of me. But if you would return a favora- — 
ble answer to my offer of myself in marriage, — 
you could draw me to any good—every good— ~ 
with equal force. My circumstances are quite — 
easy, and you would want for nothing. My — 
reputation stands quite high, and would be a_ 
shield for yours. If you saw me at my work, — 
able to do it well and respected in it, you might — 
even come to take a sort of pride in me;—I 
would try hard that you should. Whatever 

considerations I may have thought of against 
this offer I have conquered, and I make it with — 
all my heart. Your brother favors me to the — 
utmost, and it-is likely that we might live and ~ 
work together; any how, it is certain that he 
would have my best influence and support. I 
don’t know that I could say more if I tried. tf 
might only weaken what is ill enough said as it 
is. J only add that if it is any claim on you to 


y. 


7 
a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 179 


be in earnest, I am in thorough earnest, dread-| -He bit his lip again, and Jooked at her, and 
ful earnest.” said never a word. 

The powdered mortar from under the stone} ‘*You asked me to hear you out, and you 
at which he wrenched rattled on the pavement | will not speak. Let me find my brother. 
to confirm his words. ‘Stay! I threatened no one.” 

‘‘Mr. Headstone—” Her look dropped for an instant to his bleed- 

**Stop! I implore you, before you answer|ing hand. He lifted it to his mouth, wiped it 
me, to walk round this place once more. It | on his sleeve, and again folded it over the other. 
will give you a minute’s time to think, and me | “‘ Mr. Kugene Wrayburn,” he repeated. 

a minute’s time to get some fortitude together.” *‘ Why do you mention that name again and 

Again she yielded to the entreaty, and again | again, Mr. Headstone ?” 
they came back to the same place, and again he ‘* Because it is the text of the little I have 
worked at the stone. left to say. Observe! ‘There are no threats in 

**Ts it,” he said, with his attention apparently,| it. If I utter a threat, stop me, and fasten it 
engrossed by it, ‘‘ yes, or no?” upon me. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”’ 

‘Mr. Headstone, I thank you sincerely, I) A worse threat than was conveyed in his man. 
thank you gratefully, and hope you may find a | ner of uttering the name could hardly have es- 
worthy wife before long and be very happy. But caped him. ; . 
it is no.” ‘‘He haunts you. You accept favors from 

“‘Is no short time necessary for reflection;|him. You are willing enough to listen to him. 
no weeks or days?” he asked, in the same half- | I know it, as well as he docs.” 
suffocated way. ‘Mr. Wrayburn has been considerate and 

** None whatever.” : good to me, Sir,” said Lizzie, proudly, ‘‘in con- 

‘Are you quite decided, and is there no | nection with the death and with the memory of 
chance of any change in my favor?” my poor father.” 

“Tam quite decided, Mr. Headstone, and I} “‘*No doubt. He is of course a very consid- 
am bound to answer I am certain there is|erate and a very good man, Mr. Eugene Wray- 
none.” | burn.” 

‘*Then,” said he, suddenly changing his tone | ;- ‘He is nothing to you, I think,” said Lizzie, 
and turning to her, and bringing his clenched | with an indignation she could not repress. 
hand down upon the stone with a force that laid] ‘“Oh yes, he is. There you mistake. He is 
the knuckles raw and bleeding; ‘‘then I hope | much to me.” 
that I may never kill him!” ‘* What can he be to you ?” . 

_ The dark look of hatred and revenge with ** He can be arival to me among other things,” 
_ which the words broke from his livid lips, and | said Bradley. 

_ with which he stood holding out his smeared ‘““Mr. Headstone,” returned Lizzie, with a 
hand as if it held some weapon and had just | burning face, ‘‘ it is cowardly in you to speak to 
~ struck a mortal blow, made her so afraid of him | me in this way. But it makes me able to tell 
that she turned to run away. But he caught | you that I do not like you, and that I never 
her by the arm. ) have liked you from the first, and that no oth- 

**Mr. Headstone, let me go. Mr. Headstone, | er living creature has any thing to do with the 
I must call for help!” effect you have produced upon me for your- 

**Tt is I who should call for help,” he said; | self.” ~ * : } 
you don’t know yet how much I need it.” His head bent for a moment, as if under a 

The working of his face as she shrank from | weight, and he then looked up again, moisten- 
it, glancing round for her brother and uncertain | ing his lips. ‘‘I was going on with the little I 
_ what to do, might have extorted a cry from her | had left to say. I knew all this about Mr. Eu- 
in another instant; but all at once he sternly | gene Wrayburn, all the while you were drawing 
stopped it and fixed it, as if Death itself had | me to you.. Istrove against the knowledge, but 
done so. quite in vain. It made no difference in me. 

“There! You see I have recovered myself. | With Mr. Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I went 
_ Hear me out.” on. With Mr. Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, 

With much of the dignity of courage, as she |I spoke to you just now. ‘With Mr. Eugene 
recalled her self-reliant lifé and her right to be | Wrayburn in my mind, I have been set aside 
free from accountability to this man, she re-| and I have been cast out.” 
leased her arm from his grasp and stood look- ‘“If you give those names to my thanking you 
ifig full at him. She had never been so hand-| for your proposal and declining it, is it my fault, 
some, in his eyes. A shade came over them | Mr. Headstone?” said Lizzie, compassionating 
while he looked back at her, as if she drew the | the bitter struggle he could not conceal, almost 
very light out of them to herself. _|as much as she was repelled and alarmed by it. 

“This time, at least, I will leave nothing un-| ‘*I am not complaining,” he returned, “I am 
_ said,” he went on, folding his hands before him, | only stating the case. I had to wrestle with my 
clearly to prevent his being betrayed into any | self-respect when I submitted to be drawn to you 
impetuous gesture; ‘‘this last time at least I|in spite of Mr. Wrayburn. You may imagine 
will not be tortured with after-thoughts of a lost | how low my self-respect lies now.” 

Opportunity. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.” She was hurt and angry.; but repressed her- 
_ _ ** Was it of him you spoke in your ungovern- | self in consideration of his suffering, and of his 
able rage and violence?” Lizzie Hexam de- | being her brother’s friend. 

-manded with spirit. ‘¢ And it lies under his feet,” said Bradley, un- 

He bit his lip, and looked at her, and said | folding his hands in spite of himself, and fierce- 
never a word. ly motioning with them both toward the stones 

“Was it Mr. Wrayburn that youthreatened?” | of the pavement. ‘‘Remember that! It lies 


180 


under that fellow’s feet, and he treads upon it 
and exults above it.” 

‘He does not!” said Lizzie. 

“He does!” said Bradley. ‘I have stood 
before him face to face, and he crushed me down 
in the dirt of his contempt, and walked over me. 
Why? Because he knew with triumph what 
was in store for me to-night.” 

‘Oh, Mr. Headstone, you talk quite wildly.” 

“¢ Quite collectedly. I know what I say too 
well. Now I have said all. I have used no 
threat, remember; I have done no more than 
show you how the case stands ;—how the case 
stands, so far.”’ 

At this moment her brother sauntered into view 
close by. She darted to him, and caught him 
by the hand. Bradley followed, and laid his 
heavy hand on the boy’s 8 Opposite ‘shoulder. 

‘Char ley Hexam, [am going home. I must 
walk home by myself to-night, and get shut up 
in my room without being spoken to. Give me 
half an hour’s start, and let me be, till you find 
me at my work in the morning. T shall be at 
my work in the morning just as usual.” 

‘Clasping his hands, he uttered a short un- 
earthly broken cry, and went his way. The 
brother and sister were left looking at one an- 
other near a lamp in the solitary church-yard, 
and the boy’s face clouded and darkened as he 
said, in a rough tone: ‘‘ What is the meaning 
of this? What have you done to my best friend? 
Out with the truth!” 

“‘Charley !” said his sister. 
more considerately !” 

‘‘T am not in the humor for consideration, 
or for nonsense of any sort,” replied the boy. 
“What have you been doing? Why has Mr. 
Headstone gone from us in that way ?” 

‘‘He asked me—you know he asked me—to 
be his wife, Charley.” 

‘‘ Well?” said the boy, impatiently. 

“¢ And I was obliged to tell him that I could 
not be his wife.” 

‘¢You were obliged to tell him,” repeated the 
boy angrily, between his teeth, and rudely gai 
ing her away. ‘‘ You were obliged to tell him! 
Do you know that he is worth fifty of you?” 

“Tt may easily be so, Charley, but I can not 
marry him.’ 

“You mean that you are conscious that you 
can’t appreciate him, and don’t deserve him, I 
suppose ?” 

‘‘T mean that I do not like him, Charley, and 
that I will never marry him.’ 

‘Upon my soul,” ciated the boy, ‘** you 
are a nice picture of a sister! Upon my soul, 
you are a pretty piece of disinterestedness ! And 
so all my endeavors to cancel the past and to 

raise myself in the world, and to raise you with 
me, are to be beaten down by your low whims ; 
are they ?” 

‘¢T will not reproach you, Charley.” 

‘Hear her!” exclaimed the boy, looking 
round at the darkness. ‘‘She won’t reproach 
me! She does her best to destroy my fortunes 
and her own, and she won’t reproach me! Why, 
you'll tell me, next, that you won’t reproach Mr, 
Headstone for coming out of the sphere to which 
he is an ornament, and putting himself at your 
feet, to be rejected by you!” 

“¢No, Charley, I will only tell you, as I told 


** Speak a little 


himself, that I thank him for doing so, that I a though he tried to conceal it. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


sorry he did so, and that I hope he will do much ~ 
better, and be happy.” 

Some touch of compunction smote the boy’s 
hardening heart as he looked upon her, his patient 
little nurse in infancy, his patient friend, ad- 
viser, and reclaimer in boyhood, the self- forge t- 
ting sister who had done every thing for him. His ~ 
tone relented, and he drew her arm through his. 

‘‘Now, come, Liz; don’t let us quarrel; let 
us be reasonable, and talk this over like brother 
and sister. Will you listen to me?” 

‘Oh, Charley!’ she replied, through her 
starting tears; “do I not listen to you, and 
hear many hard things?” 

‘¢Then I’m sorry. There, Liz! I am un- 
feignedly sorry. Only you do put me out so. 
Now see. Mr. Headstone is perfectly devoted to 
you. » He has told me in the strongest manner 
that he has never been his old self for one single 
minute since I first brought him to see you. 
Miss Peecher, our schoolmistress—pretty and — 
young, and all that—is known to be very much » 
attached to him, and he won’t so much as look 
at her or hear of her. Now, his devotion to you 
must be a disinterested one; mustn’t it? If he 
married Miss Peecher, he would be a great deal 
better off in all worldly respects than in marry- 
ing you. Well then; he has nothing to get by 
it, has he?” 

‘¢Nothing, Heaven knows!” 

“Very well then,” said the boy; ‘that’s 
something in his favor, and a great thing. Then 
Icome in. Mr. Headstone has always got me — 
on, and he has a good deal in his power, and of © 
course if he was my brother-in-law he wouldn’t 
get me on less, but would get me on more. r 
Headstone comes and confides in me, in a ve 
delicate way, and says, ‘I hope my marryi 
your sister would be agreeable to you, Hexam, 
and useful to you?’ I say, ‘There’s nothing in 
the world, Mr. Headstone, that I could be bet- 
ter pleased with” Mr. Headstone says, ‘Then 
I may rely upon your intimate knowledge of me ~ 
for your good word with your sister, Hexam ?? — 
And I say, ‘ Certainly, Mr. Headstone, and nat- ‘ 
urally I have a good deal of influence ‘with her." F 
So Ihave; haven’t I, Liz?” 

‘¢ Yes, Charley. Lid 

“Well said! Now, you see, we » begin to get 
on, the moment we begin to be really talking it 
over, like brother and sister. Very well. Then — 
you come in. “ As Mr. Headstone’s wife you — 
would be occupying a most respectable station, 
and you would be holding a far better place in 
society than you hold now, and you would at 
length get quit of the river-side and the old dis« 
agreeables belonging to it, and you would be rid — 
for goad of dolls’ dress-makers and their drunk- | 5 
en fathers, and the like of that. Not that I want — 
to disparage Miss Jenny Wren: I dare say she — 
is all very well in her way; but her way is not 
your way as Mr. Headstone’s wife. . Now, you f 
see, Liz, on all three accounts—on Mr. Head-_ 
stone’s, on Mine, on yours—nothing could be betail 
ter or more desirable.” d 

They were walking slowly as the boy spoke, 
and here he stood still to see what effect he had 
made. His sister’s eyes were fixed upon him; 
but as they showed no yielding, and as she r 
mained silent, he walked her on again. ‘There 
was some discomfiture in his tone as he resumed, 


Sin 


18] 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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182 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


«¢ Having so much influence with you, Liz, as 
Thave, perhaps I should have done better to have 
had a little chat with you in the first instance, 
before Mr. Headstone spoke for himself. “But 
really all this in his favor seemed so plain and 
undeniable, and I knew yéuto have always been 
so reasonable and sensible, that I didn’t consider 
it worth while. Very likely that was a mistake 
of mine. However, it’s soon set right. All that 
need be done to set it right, is for you to tell me 
at once that I may go home and tell Mr. Head- 
stone that what has taken place is not final, and 
that it will all come round by-and-by.” 

He stopped again. The pale face looked anx- 
iously and lovingly at him, but she shook her 
head. 

‘¢Can’t you speak ?” said the boy, sharply. 

‘¢T am very unwilling to speak, Charley. If 
I must, I must. I can not authorize you to say 
any such thing to Mr. Headstone: I can not al- 
low you to say any such thing to Mr. Headstone. 
Nothing rémains to be said to him from me, 


after what I have said for good and all to- 


night.” 

*“ And this girl,” cried the boy, contemptu- 
ously throwing her off again, ‘‘ calls herself a 
sister !” 

‘Charley, dear, that is the second time that 
you have almost struck me. Don’t be hurt by 
my words. I don’t mean—Heaven forbid !— 
that you intended it; but you hardly know with 
what a sudden swing you removed yourself from 
mie.”’ 

‘¢ However!” said the boy, taking no heed of 


- the remonstrance, and pursuing his own morti- 


fied disappointment, ‘I know what this means, 
and you shall not disgrace me.” 

‘Tt means what I have told you, Charley, 
and nothing more.” 

“'That’s not true,” said the boy, in a violent 
tone, ‘‘and you know it’s not. It means your 
precious Mr. Wrayburn; that’s what it means.” 

‘¢ Charley! If you remember any old days of 
ours together, forbear!” 

‘But you shall not disgrace me,” doggedly 
pursued the boy. ‘I am determined that after 
T have climbed up out of the mire you shall not 
pull me down. You can’t disgrace me if I have 
nothing to do with you, and I wil/ have nothing 
to do with you for the future.” 

‘Charley! On many a night like this, and 
many a worse night, I have sat on the stones of 
the street, hushing youin my arms. Unsay those 
words without even saying you are sorry for 
them, and my arms are open to you still, and 
so is my heart.” 

‘‘1’ll not unsay them. I’Jl say them again. 
You are an inveterately bad girl, and a false sis- 
ter, and I have done with you. Forever, I have 


~dene with you!” 


liv threw up his ungrateful and ungracious 
hand as if it set up a barrier between them, and 
flung himself upon his heel and left her. She 
remained impassive on the same spot, silent and 
motionless, until the striking of the church clock 
roused her, and she turned away. But then, 
with the breaking up of her immobility came 
the breaking up of the waters that the cold heart 
of the selfish boy had frozen. And ‘‘O that I 
were lying here with the dead!” and ‘* O Char- 
ley, Charley, that this should be the end of our 
pictures in the fire!” were all the words she said, 


as she laid her face in her hands on the stone’ 
coping. : To 

A figure passed by, and passed on, but stopped 
and looked round at her. , It was the figure 
of an old man with a bowed head, wearing a 
large brimmed low-crowned hat, and a long- 
skirted coat. After hesitating a little the fig- 
ure turned back, and, advancing with an air of 
gentleness and compassion, said : 

‘¢Pardon me, young woman, for speaking to | 
you, but you are under some distress of mind. 
I can not pass upon my way and leave you weep- 
ing here alone, as if there was nothing in the - 
place. Can I help you? Can I do any thing 
to give you.comfort?” . 

’. She raised her head at the sound of these kind 
words, and answered gladly, ‘‘ Oh, Mr. Riah, is 
it you ?” 

<¢My daughter,” said the old man, ‘‘T stand 
amazed! I spoke as to a stranger. Take my 
arm, take my arm. What grieves you? Who 
has done this? Poor girl, poor girl!” 

‘¢ My brother has quarreled with me,” sobbed 
Lizzie, ‘‘and renounced me.” 

‘¢He is a thankless dog,” said the Jew, an- 
grily. ‘‘Lethim go. Shake the dust from thy 
feet and let him go. Come, daughter! Come 
home with me—it is but across the road—and 
take a little time to recover your peace and to © 
make your eyes seemly, and then I will bear you 
company through the streets. For it is past 
your usual time, and will soon be late, and the 
way is long, and there is much company out of 
doors to-night.” : ; 

She accepted the support he offered her, and | 
they slowly passed out of the church-yard. They — 
were in the act of emerging into the main thor- | 
oughfare, when another figure loitering discon- — 
tentedly by, and looking up the street and down © 
it, and all about, started and exclaimed, ‘‘Liz- | 
zie! why, where have you been? Why, what's — 
the matter ?” a 

As Eugene Wrayburn thus addressed her she | 
drew closer to the Jew and bent her head. The © 
Jew having taken in the whole of Eugene at one ~ 
sharp glance, cast his eyes upon the ground, and 
stood mute, ay q 

‘Lizzie, what is the matter?” 

‘Mr. Wrayburn, I can not tell you now. I 
can not tell you to-night, if I ever can tell you. 
Pray leave me.” . 

‘“But, Lizzie, I came expressly to join you. 
I came to walk home with you, having dined — 
at a coftee-house in this neighborhood and know= ~ 
ing your hour. And I have been lingering — 
about,” added Engene, “like a bailiff; or,” 
with a look at Riah, ‘“‘an old clothesman.” | 

The Jew lifted up his eyes, and took in Eu- 
gene more at another glance. (i 

‘Myr, Wrayburn, pray, pray leave me with — 
this protector. And one thing more. Pray, _ 
pray be careful of yourself.” a 

“Mysteries of Udelpho!’’ said Eugene, with a 
look of wonder. ‘‘ May I be excused for ask- © 
ing, in the elderly gentleman’s presence, who is 
this kind protector ?” a 

‘A trust-worthy friend,”’ said Lizzie. 4 

‘¢ T will relieve him of his trust,” returned Eus” 
gene. ‘But you must tell me, Lizzie, what is _ 
the matter ?” . : | wh | 

‘‘Her brother is the matter,” said the old 
man, lifting up his eyes again. ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 183 


Our brother the matter 2?” returned Eugene, | of serious interest (setting off his carelessness, as 
with airycontempt. ‘Our brother is not worth if it were assumed to calm her), that his lightest 
a thought, far less a tear. What has our broth. touch, his lightest look, his very presence beside 
er done?” Ms - | her in the dark common street, were like glimpses 
_ The old man lifted up his eyes again, with | of an enchanted world, which it was natural for 
one grave look at Wrayburn, and one grave jealousy and malice and all meanness to be un- 
glance at Lizzie, as she stood looking down. | able to bear the brightness of, and to gird at as 
Both were so full of meaning that even Eugene | bad spirits might. 
was checked in his light career, and subsided| N othing more being said of repairing to Riah’s, 
_ into a thoughtful ‘‘ Humph!” they went direct to Lizzie’s lodging. A little 
With an air of perfect patience the old man, | short of the house-door she parted from them, 
remaining mute and keeping his eyes.cast down, | and went in alone. 2 
stood, retaining Lizzie’s arm, as though, in his ‘*Mr. Aaron,” said Eugene, when they were 
habit of passive endurance, it would be all one | left together in the street, ‘‘ with many thanks 
to him if he had stood there motionless all night. | for your company, it remains for me unwillingly 
“If Mr. Aaron,” said Eugeng, who soon found | to say Farewell.” 
this fatiguing, ‘will be good enough to relin- ‘* Sir,” returned the other, “T give you good- 
quish his charge to me, he will be quite free | night, and I wish that you were not so thought- 
for any engagement he may have at the Syna- | less.” 
gogue. Mr. Aaron, will you have the kind- **Mr. Aaron,” returned Eugene, ‘TI give you 
ness ?” good-night, and I wish (for you are a little dull) 
_, But the old man stood stock still. that you were not so thoughtful.” 
|e Good-evening, Mr. Aaron,” said Eugene,| But now, that his part was played out for the 
politely ; ‘‘we need not detain you.” Then | evening, and when in turning his back upon the 
turning to Lizzie, “Is our friend Mr. Aarén a|Jew he came off the stage, he was thoughtful 
_ little deaf?” himself. ‘‘ How did Lightwood’s catechism run?” 
“My hearing is very good, Christian gentle | he murmured, as he stopped to light his cigar. 
man,” replied the old man, calmly, ‘but I will | ‘‘ What is to come of it? What are you doing ? 
hear only one voice to-night desiring me to leave | Where are you going? We shall soon know 
this damsel before I have conveyed her to her|now. Ah!” witha heavy sigh, - 
home. If she requests it, [will do it. Iwilldo| The heavy sigh was repeated as if by an echo, 
_ it for no one else.” ‘ an hour afterward, when Riah, who had been 
**May I ask why so, Mr. Aaron?” said Eu- sitting on some dark steps in a corner over against 
_ gene, quite undisturbed in his ease, the house, arose and went his patient way; steal- 
__ “Excuse me. If she asks me, I will tell her,” | ing through the streets in his ancient dress, like 
Teplied the old man. “I will tell no one elsew” | the ghost of a departed Time. 
“TI do not ask you,” said Lizzie, ‘‘and I beg 
you to take me home. Mr. Wrayburn, I have 
had a bitter trial to-night, and I hope you will 
not think me ungrateful, or mysterious, or change- 
able. Iam neither; I am wretched. Pray re- 
member what I said to you, Pray, pray take 
_ Care.” 
__ ** My dear Lizzie,” he returned, in alow voice, 
_ bending over her on the other side; ‘‘of what? 
Of whom?” . 
___ “Of any one you have lately seen and made 
angry.” 
_ Hesnapped his fingers and laughed. ‘‘Come,” 
said he, ‘since no better may be, Mr. Aaron 
and I will divide this trust, and see you home 
together. Mr. Aaron on that side; I on this. 
If perfectly agreeable to Mr. Aaron, the escort 
will now proceed.” 
He knew his power over her. He knew that 
she would not insist upon his leaving her. He 
knew that, her fears for him being aroused, she 
would be uneasy if he were out of her sight. 
For all his seeming levity and carelessness he 
_knew whatever he chose to know of the thoughts 
of her heart. raying herself for the bewilderment of the senses 
And going on at her side, so gayly, regard- | of men, is known only to the Graces and her 
less of all that had been urged against him; so maid; but perhaps even that engaging creature, 
superior in his sallies and self-possession to the | though not reduced to the self-dependence of 
gloomy ae her suitor and the selfish Twemlow, could dispense with a good deal of the 
petulance of her brother; so faithful to her, as | trouble attendant on the daily restoration of her 
it seemed, when her own stock was faithless; | charms, seeing that as to her face and neck this 
what an immense advantage, what an overpow- | adorable divinity is, as it were, a diurnal species 
ering influence, were his that night! Add to the | of lobster—throwing off a shell every forenoon, 
rest, poor girl, that she had heard him vilified and needing to keep in a retired spot until the 
for her sake, and that she had suffered for his, | new crust hardens. 
and where the wonder that his occasional tones! Howbeit, Twemlow doth at length invest hime 


—o—_—— - 


CHAPTER XVI. 
AN ANNIVERSARY OCCASION. 


THE estimable Twemlow, dressing himself in . 
his lodgings over the stable-yard in Duke Street, 
Saint James’s, and hearing the horses at their 
toilet below, finds himself on the whole in a dis- 
advantageous position as compared with the no- 
ble animals at livery. - For whereas, on the one 
hand, he has no attendant to slap him sounding- 
ly and require him in gruff accents to come up 
and come over, still,-on the other hand, he has 
no attendant at all; and the mild gentleman’s 
finger-joints and other joints working rustily in 
the morning, he could deem it agreeable even to 
be tied up by the countenance at his chamber- 
door,,so he were there skillfully rubbed down 
and slushed and sluiced and polished and clothed, 
while himself taking merely a passive part in 
these trying transactions. ae Sy 

How the fascinating Tippins gets on when ar- 


184 


self with collar and cravat and wristbands to his 
knuckles, and goeth forth to breakfast. And to 
breakfast with whom but his near neighbors, the 
Lammles of Sackville Street, who have imparted 
to him that he will meet his distant kinsman, 
Mr. Fledgeby. The awful Snigsworth might 
taboo and prohibit Fledgeby, but the peaceable 
Twemlow reasons, “If he 7s my kinsman I didn’t 
make him so, and to meet a man is not to know 
him.” 

It is the first anniversary of the happy mar- 
riage of Mr. and Mrs. Lammle, and the celebra- 
tion is a breakfast, because a dinner on the de- 
sired scale of sumptuosity can not be achieved 
within less limits than’ those of the non-existent 
palatial residence of which so many people are 
madly envious. So Twemlow trips with not a 
little stiffness across Piccadilly, sensible of hav- 
ing once been more upright in figure and less in 
danger of being knocked down by swift vehicles. 
To be sure that was in the days when he hoped 
for leave from the dread Snigsworth to do some- 
thing, or be something, in life,-and before that 
magnificent Tartar issued the ukase, ‘*As he 
will never distinguish himself, he must be a poor 
gentleman-pensioner of mine, and let him here- 
by consider himself pensioned.” 

Ah! my Twemlow! Say, little feeble gray 
personage, What thoughts are in thy breast to- 
day, of the Fancy—so still to call her who bruised 
thy heart when it was green and thy head brown 
—and whether it be better or worse, more pain- 
ful or less, to believe in the Fancy to this hour, 
than to know her for a’ greedy armor-plated 
crocodile, with no more capacity of imagining 
the delicate:and sensitive and tender spot behind 
thy waistcoat, than of going straight at it with 
a knittiug-needle. Say likewise, my Twemlow, 
whether it be the happier lot to be a poor rela- 
tion of the great, or to stand in the wintry slush 
giving the hack horses to drink out of the shal- 
low tub at the coach-stand, into which thon hast 
so nearly set thy uncertain foot. ‘T'wemlow says 
nothing, and goes on. 

As he approaches the Lammles’ door, drives 
up a little one-horse carriage, containing Tip- 
pins the «divine. Tippins, letting down the win- 
dow, playfully extols the vigilance of her cava- 
lier in being in waiting there to hand her out. 
Twemlow hands her out with as much polite 
gravity as if she were any thing real, and they 
proceed up stairs: 'Tippins all abroad about the | 
lees, and seeking to express that those unsteady 
articles are only skipping in their native buoy- 
ancy. . ; 

And dear Mrs. Lammle and dear Mr. Lammle, 
how do you dé, and when are you going down 
to what’s-its-name place—Guy, Earl of Warwick, 
you know—what is it ?—Dun Cow—to claim the 
ditch of bacon? And Mortimer, whose name is 
forever blotted ont from my list of lovers, by rea- 
son first of fickleness and then of base desertion, 
how do you do, wretch? And Mr. Wrayburn, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


™ 
ee 


- by 


prose, for you haven’t opened your lips there yet, 
and we are dying to hear what you haye got to 
say to us! Miss Podsnap, charmed to see you. 
Pa, here? No! Ma, neither? Oh! Mr. 
Boots! Delighted. Mr. Brewer! This is a 
eathering of the clans. Thus Tippins, and sur- 
veys Fledgeby and outsiders through golden glass, 
murmuring as she turns about and about, in. 
her innocent giddy way, Any body else I know ? 
No, I think not. Nobody there. Nobody there. 
Nobody any where! ae 
_ Mr. Lammle, all a-glitter, produces his friend 
Fledgeby, as dying for the honor of presentation 
to Lady Tippins. Fledgeby presented, has the 
air of going to say something, has the air of 
going to say nothing, has an air successively of 
meditation, of resignation, and of desolation, 
backs on Brewer, makes the tour of Boots, and 
fades into the extreme back-ground, feeling for 
his whisker, as if it might have turned up since 
he was there five minutes ago. 

But Lammle has him out again before he has 
so much as completely ascertained the -bareness 
of the land. He would seem to be ina bad way, — 
Fledgeby; for Lammle represents him as dying 
again. He is dying now, of want of presenta- 
tion to Twemlow. . 

Tiwemlow offers his hand. Glad to see him. 
‘Your mother, Sir, was a connection of mine.” 

‘‘T believe so,”’ says Fledgeby, ‘‘ but my mo- 
ther and her family were two.” 

“Are you staying in town?” asks Twemlow. 

‘‘T always am,” says Flédgeby. 

‘You like town,” says Twemlow. Butis felled 
flat by Fledgeby’s taking it quite ill, and reply- 
ing, No, he don’t like town. Lammile‘tries to 
break the force of the fall by remarking that 
some people do not like town. Fledgeby retort- 
ing that he never heard of any such case but his © 
own, Twemlow goes down again heavily. rl 

“There is nothing new this morning, I sup-_ 
pose ?” says Twemlow, returning to the mark 
with great spirit. 

Fledgeby has not heard of any thing. 

f ‘‘No, there’s not a word of news, 

Lammle. ; 

4 ‘«Not a particle,” adds Boots. 

‘¢ Not an atom,” chimes in Brewer. fi 

Somehow the execution of this little concert- a 
ed piece appears to raise the general spirits as 4 
with a sense of duty done, and sets the company © 
agoing. Every body seems more equal than be- 4 
fore to the calamity of being in the society of — 
every body else. Even Engene standing in @ 4 
window, moodily swinging the tassel of a blind, — 
gives it a smarter jerk now, as if he found him- 
self in better case. ; 

- Breakfast announced. Every thing on table 
showy and gaudy, but witha self-assertingly tem- 


ee 


Sige 


i 


” says | 


{ 


porary and nomadic air on the decorations, as i 
boasting that they will be much more showy and © 


gaudy in the palatial residence. Mr.lam mle s — 
own particular servant behind his chair; the An- | 


you here! What can you come for, because we 


are all very sure beforehand that you are not, 
going to talk!) And Veneering, M.P., how are 


things going on down at the House, and when 


will vou turn out those terrible people for us?) 


And Mrs. Veneering, my dear, can it positively 
be true that you go down to that stifling place 
night after night, to hear those men prose? 
Talking of which, Veneering, why don’t you 


'alytical behind Veneering’s chair; instances ing 
point that such servants fallginto two classes 3 _ 

one mistrusting the master’s acquaintances, and ~ 
‘the other mistrusting the master. Mr. Lammle’s — 
servant, of the second class. Appearing to be 
\Jost in wonder and low spirits because the police 
; are so long in coming to take his master up om 
some charge of the first magnitnde, 
Vencering, M.P., on the right of Mrs. 


BS 


Lam- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


mle; Twemlow on her left; Mrs. Veneering, 
W.M.P. (wife of Member of Parliament), and 
Lady ‘Tippins on Mr. Lammle’s right and left. 
But be sure that well within the fascination of 
Mr. Lammle’s eye and smile sits little Georgiana. 
And be sure that close to little Georgiana, also 
under inspection by the same gingerous gentle- 


“man, sits Fledgeby. 


Oftener than twice or thrice while breakfast 


is in progress Mr. Twemlow gives a little sud- 


den turn toward Mrs. Lammle, and then says to 
her, ‘“‘I beg your pardon!” This not being 
Twemlow’s usual way, why is it his way to-day ? 
Why, the truth is, Twemlow repeatedly labors 
under the impression that Mrs. Lammle is going 
to speak to him, and turning finds that it is not 
so, and mostly that she has her eyes upon Ve- 
neering. Strange that this impression so abides 
by Twemlow after being corrected, yet so it 


a 38, 


Lady Tippins partaking plentifully of the fruits 
of the earth (including grape-juice in the cate- 
gory) becomes livelier, and applies herself to 
elicit sparks from Mortimer Lightwood. It is 
always understood among the initiated, that that 


faithless lover must be planted at table opposite 


to Lady Tippins, who will then strike conversa- 
tional fire out of him. In a pause of mastica- 
tion and deglutition, Lady Tippins, contempla- 


ting Mortimer, recalls that it was at our dear 


Veneerings, and in the presence of a party who 
are surely all here, that he told them his story 
of the man.from somewhere, which afterward 
became so horribly interesting and vulgarly pop- 
ular. ; 

** Yes, Lady Tippins,” assents Mortimer; ‘as 
they say on the stage, ‘Even so!’” 

‘“*Then we expect you,” retorts the charmer, 
“to sustain your reputation, and tell us some- 
thing else.” 

‘‘Lady Tippins, I exhausted myself for life 
that day, and there is nothing more to be got 
out of me.” 

Mortimer parries thus, with a sense upon him 
that elsewhere it is Eugene and not he who is 
the jester, and that in these circles where Eugene 
persists in being speechless, he, Mortimer, is 
but the double of the friend on whom he has 
founded himself. 

** But,” quoth the fascinating Tippins, “I am 
resolved on getting something more out of you. 
Traitor! what is this I hear about another dis- 
appearance ?” 

‘* As it is you who have heard it,” returns 
Lightwood, ‘perhaps you'll tell us.” 

‘‘Monster, away!” retorts Lady Tippins. 
“Your own Golden Dustman referred me to 
you.” 

Mr. Lammle striking in here, proclaims aloud 
that there is a sequel to the story of the-man 
from somewhere. Silence ensues upon the proc- 
lamation. 

‘I. assure you,” says Lightwood, glancing 
round the table, ‘* I have nothing to tell.” But 
Eugene adding in a low voice, ‘*There, tell it, 
tell it!” he corrects himself with the addition, 
** Nothing worth mentioning.” 

Boots and Brewer immediately perceive that 
it is immensely worth mentioning, and become 


politely clamorous. Veneering is also visited by 


a perception to the same effect. But it is under- 
stood that his attention is now rather used up, 
12 


185 
and difficult to hold, that being the tone of the 
House of Commons. 

‘* Pray don’t be at the trouble of composing 
yourselves to listen,” says Mortimer Lightwood, 
‘‘ because I shall have finished long before you 
have fallen into comfortable attitudes. It’s 
like—” 

‘‘It’s like,” impatiently interrupts Eugene, 
‘*the children’s narrative : 

*¢* Pll tell you a story 

‘«<Of Jack a Manory, 

‘*¢And now my story’s begun; 

“6 Y'll tell you another 

“¢Of Jack and his brother, 

***And now my story is done.’ 
—Get on, and get it over!” 

Eugene says this with a sound of vexation in 
his voice, leaning back in his chair and looking 
balefully at Lady Tippins, who nods to him as 
her dear Bear, and playfully insinuates that she 
(a self-evident proposition) is Beauty, and he 
Beast. 

‘*'The reference,” proceeds Mortimer, ‘‘ which 
I suppose to be made by my honorable and fair 
enslaver opposite, is to the following circum- 
stance. Very lately, the young woman, Lizzie 
Hexam, daughter of the late Jesse Hexam, oth- 
erwise Gaffer, who will be remembered to have 
found the body of the man from somewhere, mys- 
teriously received, she knew not from whom, an 
xplicit retractation of the charges made against 
her father by another water-side character of the 
name of Riderhood. Nobody believed them, be- 
cause little Rogue Riderhood—I am tempted into 
the paraphrase by remembering the charming 
wolf who would have rendered socicty a great 
service if he had devoured Mr. Riderhood’s fa- 
ther and mother in their infancy—had previous- 
ly played fast and loose with the said charges, 
and, in fact, abandoned them. However, the 
retractation I have mentioned found its way into 
Lizzie Hexam’s hands, with a general flavor on 
it of having been favored by some anonymous 
messenger in a dark cloak and slouched hat, 
and was by her forwarded, in her father’s vindi- 
cation, to Mr. Boffin, my client. You will ex- 
cuse the phraseology of the shop, but as I never 
had another client, and in all likelihood never 
shall have, I am rather proud of him as a natu- 
ral curiosity probably unique.” 

Although as easy as usual on the surface, 
Lightwood is not quite as easy as usual below 
it. With an air of not minding Eugene at all, 
he feels that the subject is not altogether a safe 
one in that connection. 

‘¢The natural curiosity which forms the sole 
ornament of my professional museum,” he re- 
sumes, ‘‘hereupon desires his Secretary—an in- 
dividual of the hermit-crab or oyster species, 
and whose name, I think, is Chokesmith—but 
it doesn’t in the least matter—say Artichoke— 
to put himself in communication with Lizzie 
Hexam. Artichoke professes his readiness so 
to do, endeavors to do so, but fails.” 

‘¢ Why fails?” asks Boots. 

“ Tlow fails ?” asks Brewer. 

‘Pardon me,” returns Lightwood, ‘‘I must 
postpone the reply for one moment, or we shall 
have an anti-climax. Artichoke failing sig- 
nally, my client refers the task to me: his pur- 
pose being to advance the interests of the object 
of his search. I proceed to put myself in com- 
munication with her; I even happen to possess 


186 


some special means,” with a glance at Eugene, 
“of putting myself in communication with her; 
but I fail too, because she has vanished.” 

“Vanished !” is the general echo. 

‘* Disappeared,” says Mortimer. ‘* Nobody 
knows how, nobody knows when, nobody knows 
where. And so ends the story to which my hon- 
orable and fair enslaver opposite referred.” 

Tippins, with a bewitching little scream, opines 
that we shall every one of us be murdered in 
our beds. Kugene eyes her as if some of us 
would be enough for him. Mrs. Veneering, 
W.M.P., remarks that these social mysteries 
make one afraid of leaving Baby. Veneering, | 
M.P., wishes to be informed (with something of | 
a second-hand air of seeing the Right Honora- | 
ble Gentleman at the head of the Home Depart- 
ment in his place) whether it is intended to be | 
conveyed that the vanished person has been spir- 
ited away or otherwise harmed? Instead of 
Lightwood’s answering, Eugene answers, and 
answers hastily and vexedly: ‘*No, no, no; he 
doesn’t mean that; he means voluntarily van- 
ished—but utterly—completely.” 

However, the great subject of the happiness 
of Mr. and Mrs. Lammle must not be allowed 
to vanish with the other vanishments—with the 
vanishing of the murderer, the vanishing of Ju- 
lius Handford, the vanishing of Lizzie Hexam— 
and therefore Veneering must recall the present 
sheep to the pen from which they have strayed. 
Who so fit to discourse of the happiness of Mr. 
and Mrs. Lammle, they being the dearest and 
oldest friends he has in the world; or what au- 
dience so fit for him to take into his confidence 
as that audience, a noun of multitude or signi- 
fying many, who are all the oldest and dearest 
friends he has in the world? So Veneering, 
without the formality of rising, launches into a 
farailiar oration, gradually toning into the Par- 
liam mtary sing-song, in which he sees at that 
board his dear friend Twemlow, who on that 
day twelvemonth bestowed on his dear friend 
Lammle the fair hand of his dear friend So- 
phronia, and in which he also sees at that board 
his dear friends Boots and Brewer, whose rally- 
ing round him at a period when his dear friend 
Lady Tipjins likewise rallied round him—ay, 
and in the foremost rank—he can never forget 
while memory holds her seat. But he is free to 
confess that he misses from that baard his dear 
old frien! Podsnap, thouzh he is well repregent- | 
ed by his dear young friend Georgiana. And | 
he further sees at that board (this he announces 
with pomp, as if exulting in the powers of an | 
extraordinary telescope) his friend Mr. Fledge- 
by, if he will permit him to call him so. For all | 
of these reasons, and many more which he right 
well knows will have occurred to persons of your 
exceptional acuteness, he is here to submit to 
you that the time has arrived when, with our 
hearts in our glasses, with tears in our eyes, 
with blessings on our lips, and in a general way 
with a profusion of gammon and spinach in our 
emotional larders, we shonld one and all drink 
to our dear friends the Lammles, wishing them 
many many years as happy as the last, and many 
many friends as congenially united as them- 
selves. And this he will add, that Anastatia 
Veneering (who is instantly heard to weep) is 
formed on the same model as her old and chosen 
friend Sophronia Lammle, in respect that she is. 


| pitality. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


devoted to the man who wooed and won her, 
and nobly discharges the duties of a wife, 

‘‘Seeing no better way out of it, Veneering 
here pulls up his oratorical Pegasus extremely 
short, and plumps down, clean over his head, 
with: ‘* Lammle, God bless you!” 

Then Lammle. ‘Too much of him every way; 
pervadingly too much nose of a coarse wrong 
shape, and his nose in his mind and his man- 
ners; too much smile to be real; too much 
frown to be false; too many large teeth to be 
Visible at once without suggesting a bite. He 
thanks you, dear friends, for your kindly greet- 


ing, and hopes to receive you—it may be on the 


next of these delightful occasions—in a residence 
better suited to your claims on the rites of hos- 
He will never forget that at Veneer- 
ing’s he first saw Sophronia. Sophronia will 
never forget that at Venecring’s she first saw 
him. They spoke of it soon after they were 
married, and agreed that they would never for- 


get it. In fact, to Veneering they owe their 
union. ‘They hope to show their sense of this 


some day (‘‘ No, no,” from Veneering’—oh yes, 
yes, and let him rely upon it, they will if they 
can! His marriage with Sophronia was not a 
marriage of interest on either side: she had her 
little fortune, he had his little fortune: they join- 
ed their little fortunes: it was a marriage of 
pure inclination and suitability. Thank you!, 
Sophronia and he are fond of the society of 
young people; but he is not sure that their 
house would be a good house for young people 
proposing to remain single, since the contempla- 
tion of its domestic bliss might induce them to 
change their minds. He will not apply this to 
any one present; certainly not to their darling 
little Georgiana, Again thank yon! N»ither, 
by-the-by, will he apply it to his friend Fledge- 
by. He thanks Vencering for the feeling man- 
ner in which he referred to their common friend 
Fledgeby, for he holds that gentleman in the 
highest estimation. Thank you. In fact (re- 
turning unexpectedly to Fledgeby), the better 
you know him, the more you find in him that 
you desire toknow. Againthank you! In his 
dear Sophronia’s name and in his ayn, thank 
you! 

Mrs. Lammie has sat quite still, with her eyes 
cast down upon the table-cloth. As Mr. Lam- 
mle’s address ends, Twemlow once more turns 
to her involuntarily, not eured yet of that often- 
recurring impression that she is going to sp sak 
to him. ‘This time she really is going to speak 
to him. Veneering is talking with his other 
next neighbor, and she speaks in a low voice. 

‘*Mr. Twemlow,” 

He answers, ‘‘I beg your pardon? Yes?” 
Still a little doubtful, because of her not looking 
at him, 

“You have the soul of a gentleman, and I 
know I may trust you. Will you give me the 
opportunity of saving a few words to you when 
you come up stairs ?” 

‘* Assuredly. I shall be honored.” 

‘*Don’t seem to do so, if you please, and 
don’t think it inconsistent if my manner should 
be more careless than my words. I may be 
watched.”’ 

Intensely astonished, Twemlow pnts his hand 
to his forehead, and sinks back in his chair med- 
itating. Mrs. Lammle rises. All rice, ‘The 


val to taking an observation of Boots’s 


_of being sold into wretchedness for life.” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. \ 


ladies go up stairs. The gentlemen soon saun- 
ter after them. Fledgeby has devoted the inter- 
whiskers, 
Brewer’s whiskers, and Lammle’s whiskers, and 
considering which pattern of whisker he would 
prefer to produce out of himself by friction, if 
the Genie of the cheek would only answer to his 
rubbing. 

In the drawing-room, groups form as usual. 
Lightwood, Boots, and Brewer flutter like moths 
around that yellow wax-candle—guttering down, 
and with some hint of a winding-sheet in it— 
Lady Tippins. Outsiders cultivate Vencering, 
M.P., and Mrs. Veneering, W.M.P. Lammle 
stands with folded arms, Mephistophelean in a 
corner, with Georgiana and Fledgeby. Mrs. 
Lammile, on a sofa by a table, invites Mr. Twem- 
low’s.attention to a book of portraits in her hand. 

Mr. Twemlow takes his station’ on a settee be- 
fore her, and Mrs. Lammle shows him a portrait. 

“You have reason to be surprised,” she: says, 
softly, ‘‘ but I wish you wouldn’t look so, 

Disturbed Twemlow, making an effort not to 
look so, looks much more so. 

**T think, Mr. Twemlow, you never saw that 
distant connection of yours before to-day ?” 

‘“ No, never.” 
**Now that you do see him, you see what he 

You are not proud of him ?” 

*“To say the truth, Mrs. Lammle, no.” 

‘Tf you knew more of him, you would be less 
inclined to acknowledge him. Here is another 
portrait. What do you think of it?” 

Twemlow has just presence of mind enough to 
say aloud: ‘‘ Very like! Uncommonly like!” 

“You have noticed, perhaps, whom he favors 
with his attentions?’ You notice where he is | 
now, and how engazed ?” 

“Yes, But Mr. Lammle—”’ 

She darts a look at him which he ean not 
comprehend, and shows him another portrait. 

‘* Very good; is it not?” 

**Charming!” says ‘Twemlow. 

, **So like as to be almost a caricature ?—Mr. 
Twemlow, it is impossible to tell you. what the 
struggle in my mind has been, before I could 
bring myself to speak to you as I do now, It is 
only i in the conviction that I may trust you nev- 
er to betray me, that I can proceed, Sincerely 
promise me that you never will betray my con- 
fidence—that you will respect it, even though 
you may no longer respect me—and I shall be 
as satisfied as if you had sworn it.” 

‘*Madam, on the honor of a poor gentle- 
man——” 

“‘Thank you. I can desire no more. Mr. 
Twemlow, I implore you to save that child!” 

“That child ?” 

‘Georgiana. She will be sacrificed. She 
will be inveigled and married to that connection 
of yours. It is a partnership affair, a money- 
speculation. . She has no strength of will or 
character to help herself, and she is on the brink 


is. 


— 


‘““Amazing! But what can J do to prevent 
it?” demands Twemlow, shocked and bewilder- 
ed to the last degree. 

‘‘Here is another portrait. 
a3 it?” 

Aghast at the light manner of her throwing 
her head back to look at it critically, Twemlow 
still dimly perceives the expediency of throwing 


And not good, 


‘can cause his vanity to take the alarm. 


187 


his own head back, and does so. Though he 
no more sees the portrait than if it were in 
China. 

‘* Decidedly not good,” says Mrs. Lammle. 
‘¢ Stiff and exaggerated !” 

‘*And ex— ” But ‘Twemlow, in his demol- 
ished state, can not command the word, and 
trails off into “« —actly so.’ 

‘Mr. T'wemlow, your word will have weight 
with her pompous, self-blinded father, You 
know how much he makes of your family. Lose 
no.time. Warn him.’ 

‘But warn him against whom ?” 

** Against me,” 

By great good fortune Twemlow receives a 
stimulant at this critical instant. The stimu. 
lant is Lammle’s voice. 

-‘* Sophronia, my dear, what portraits are you 
showing Twemlow ?” 

** Public characters, Alfred.” 

‘*Show him the last of me.” 

‘*Yes, Alfred.” 

She puts the book down, takes another book 
up, turns the leaves, and presents the portrait 
to Twemlow. 

‘*That is the last of Mr. Lammle. Do you 
think it good ?—Warn. her father against me. 
I deserve it, for I have been in the scheme from 
the first. It is my husband’s scheme, your con- 
nection’s, and mine. I tell you this, only to 


“show you the necessity of the poor little foolish 
affectionate creature’s being befriended and res- 
Peued. 
/You will spare me so, far, and spare my hus- 
eband. 
“is all a mockery, hei is my husband, and we must 


You will not repeat this to her father. 


For, though this celebration of to-day 


live-—Do you think it like 2” 

Twemlow, in a stanned:condition, feigns to 
compare the portrait in his hand with the orig- 
inal looking toward him from his Mephistophe- 
lean corner. 

‘* Very well indeed!” are at length the words 
which Twemlow with great difficulty extracts 
from himself, 

‘*T am glad you think so. 
myself consider it the best. 
dark. Now here, for instance, is another 
Mr. Lammle— 

“But I don’t understand; I don’t see my 
way,’ Twemlow stammers, as he falters over 
the book with his glass at his eye. ‘* How warn 
her father, and not tell him? Tell him how 
much? Tell him how little? I—I—am get- 
ting lost.” 

‘¢Tell him: I am a match-maker; tell him I 
am an artful and designing woman; tell him 
you are sure his daughter is best ont of my 
house and my company. Tell him—any such 
things of me; they will all be true. You know 
what a puffed-up man he is, and how easily you 
Tell 
him as much as will give him the alarm and 
make him careful of her, and spare me the rest. 
Mr. Twemlow, I feel my sudden degradation in* 
your eyes ; familiar as I am with my degrada- 
tion in my own eyes, I keenly feel the change 
that must have come upon me in yours, in these 
last few moments. But I trust to your good 
faith with me as implicitly as when I began. 
If you knew how often I have tried to speak to 
you to-day you would almost pity me. I want 
no new promise from you on my own account, 


On the whole, I 
The others are so 
of 


Nae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


for I am satisfied, and I always shall be satis- | low looking at Alfred’s portrait through his eye- 


fied, with the promise you have given me. 
can venture to say no more, for I see that I am 
watched. If you would set my mind at rest 
with the assurance that you will interpose with 
the father and save this harmless girl, close that 
book before you return it to me, and I shall 
know what you mean, and deeply thank you in 
my heart.—Alfred, Mr. Twemlow thinks the last 
one the best, and quite agrees with you and me.” 

Alfred advances. The groups break up. Lady 
Tippins rises to go, and Mrs. Veneering follows 
her leader. For the moment Mrs. Lammle does 
not turn to them, but remains looking at '‘’wem- 


I | glass. 


The moment past, ‘Twemlow drops his 
eye-glass at its ribbon’s length, rises, and closes 
the book with an emphasis which makes that 
fragile nursling of the fairies, Tippins, start. 

Then good-by and good-by, and charming 
occasion worthy of the Golden Age, and more 
about the flitch of bacon, and the like of that; 
and Twemlow goes staggering across Piccadilly 
with his hand to his forehead, and is nearly run 
down by a flushed letter-cart, and at last drops 
safe in his easy-chair, innocent good gentleman, 
with his hand to his forehead still, and his head 
in a whirl. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


189 


BOOK IIL—A LONG LANE 


CHAPTER I. 
LODGERS IN QUEER STREET. 


Ir was a foggy day in London, and the: fog. 
was heavy and dark... Animate London, with | 


smarting eyes and irritated lungs, was blinking, 
wheezing, and choking; 


visible and invisible, and so being wholly neither. 
Gaslights flared in the shops with a haggard 


and unblessed air, as knowing themselves to-be | 


night-creatures that had no business abroad un- 
der the sun; while the sun itself, when it was 
for a few moments dimly indicated through cir- 
cling eddies of fog, showed as if it had gone out 
and were collapsing flat and cold. Even in the 


surrounding country it was a foggy day, but | 


there the fog was gray, whereas in London it 
was, at about the boundary line, dark yellow, 
and a little within it brown, and then browner, 
and then browner, until at the heart of the City 
—which call Saint Mary Axe —it was rusty 
black. From any point of the high ridge of land 


northward, it might have been discerned that the | 


loftiest buildings made an occasional struggle to 
get their heads above the foggv sea, and espe- 
cially that the great dome of Saint Paul’s seemed 
to die hard; but this was not perceivable in the 
streets at their feet, where the whole metropolis 
was a heap of vapor charged with muffled sound 
of wheels, and enfolding a gigantic catarrh. 

At nine o’clock on such a morning, the place 
of business of Pubsey and Co. was not the live- 
liest object even in Saint Mary Axe—which is 
not a very lively spot—with a sobbing gaslight 
in the counting-house window, and a burglarious 
stream of fog creeping in to strangle it through 
the keyhole of the main door. But the light 
went out, and the main door opened, and Riah 
came forth with a bag under his arm. 

Almost in the act of coming out at the door 
Riah went into the fog, and was lost to the eyes 
of Saint Mary Axe. But the eyes of this history 
can follow him westward, by Cornhill, Cheap- 
side, Fleet Street, and the Strand, to Piccadilly 
and the Albany. ‘hither he went at his grave 
and measured pace, staff in hand, skirt at heel; 
and more than one head, turning to look back 
at his venerable figure alréady lost in the mist, 
supposed it to be some ordinary figure indistinct- 
ly seen, which fancy and the fog had worked into 
that passing likeness. 

Arrived at the house in which his master’s 
chambers were on the second-floor, Riah pro- 
ceeded up the stairs, and paused at Fascination 
Fledgeby’s door. Making free with neither bell 
nor knocker, he struck upon the door with the 
top of his staff, and, having listened, sat down 
on the threshold. It was characteristic of his 
habitual submission, that he sat down on the 


raw dark staircase, as many of his ancestors had | 


probably sat down in dungeons, taking what be- 
fell him as it might befall. 


inanimate London was | 
a sooty spectre, divided in purpose between being | 
hour more, during which added interval Riah 


to be fain to blow upon his fingers, he arose and 
knocked with his statf again, and listened again, 
and again sat down to wait. ‘Thrice he repeated 
these actions before his listening ears were greeted 
by the voice of Fledgeby, calling from his bed, 
‘* Wold your row! Ill come and dpen the door 
direetly !” But in lieu of coming directly, he 
fell into a sweet sleep for some quarter of an 


sat upon the stairs and waited with perfect pa- 
tience. 

At length the door stood open, and Mr. Fledge- 
by’s retreating drapery plunged into bed again. 
Following it at a respectful distance, Riah passed 
into the bedchamber, where a fire had been 
sometime lighted, and was burning briskly. 

‘Why, what time of night do you mean to 
call it?” inquired Fledgeby, turning away be- 
neath the clothes, and presenting a comfortable 


rampart of shoulder to the chilled figure of the 


old man. 

‘¢Sir, it is full half past ten in the morning.” 

““The deuce it is! Then it must be precious 
foggy ?” . 

‘Very foggy, Sir.” 

‘¢ And raw, then ?” 

**Chill and bitter,” said Riah, drawing out a 
handkerchief, and wiping the moisture from his 
beard and long gray hair as he stood on the verge 
of the rug, with his eyes on the acceptable fire. 

With a plunge of enjoyment Fledgeby settled 
himself afresh, 

‘‘ Any snow, or sleet, or slush, or any thing 
of that sort?” he asked. 

‘‘No, Sir, no. Not quite so bad as tuat. The 
streets are pretty clean.” 

** You needn’t brag about it,” returned Fledge- 
by, disappointed in his desire to heighten the 
contrast between his bed and the streets. ‘‘ But 
you're always bragging about something. Got 
the books there ?” 

‘“'They are here, Sir.” 

“Allright. Dll turn the general subject over 
in my mind for a minute or two, and while I’m 
about it you can empty your bag and get ready 
for me.” 

With another comfortable plunge Mr. Fledge- 
by fell asleep again. The old man, having obeyed 
his directions, sat down on the edge ef a chair, 
and, folding his hands before him, gradually 
yielded to the influence of the warmth, and 
dozed. He was roused by Mr. Fledgeby’s ap- 
pearing erect at the foot of the bed, in Turkish 
slippérs, rose-colored Turkish trowsers (got cheap 
from somebody who had cheated some other 
somebody out of them), and a gown and cap to 
correspond. In that costume he would have left 
nothing to be desired, if he had been further 
fitted out with a bottomless chair, a lantern, and 
a bunch of matches. 

‘Now, old’un!” cried Fascination, in his light 
raillery, ‘‘ what dodgery are you up to next, sit- 
ting there with your eyes shut? You ain’t 


After a time, when he had grown so cold as| asleep. Catch a weasel at it, and catch a Jew!” 


Be 
ae 


190 
“Truly, Sir, I fear I nodded,” said the old 
man. 
‘“Not you!” returned Fledgeby, with a cun- 


ning look. ‘‘ A telling move with a good many, 
I dare say, but it won’t put me off my guard. 


Not a bad notion though, if you want to look in- 


different in driving a bargain. Oh, you are a 
dodger !” 

The old man shook his head, gently repudi- 

ating the imputation, and suppressed a sigh, and 

moved to the table at which Mr. Fledgeby was 
now pouring out for himself a cup of steaming 
and fragrant coffee from a pot that had stood 
ready on the hob. It was an edifying spectacle, 
the young man in his easy-chair taking his coffee, 
and the old man with his gray head bent, stand- 
ing awaiting his pleasure. 

‘“Now!” said Fledgeby. ‘Fork out your 
balance in hand, and prove by figures how you 
make it out thatit ain’t more. First of all, light 
that candle.” 

Riah obeyed, and then taking a bag from his 
breast, and referring to the sum in the accounts 
for which they made him responsible, told it out 
upon the table. Fledgeby told it again with 
great care, and rang every sovereign. 

‘*T suppose,” he said, taking one up to eye it 
closely, ‘‘you haven’t been lightening any of 
these; but it’s a trade of your. people’s, you 
know. Yow understand what sweating a pound 
means; don’t you?” 

** Much as you do, Sir,” returned the old man, 
with his hands under opposite cuffs of his loose 
sleeves, as he stood at the table, deferentially 
observant of the master’s face. “May I take 
the liberty to say something ?” ; 

‘*You may,” Fledgeby graciously conceded. 

‘Do you not, Sir—without intending it—of a 
surety without intending it—sometimes mingle 
the character I fairly earn in your employment 
with the character which it is your policy that I 
should bear ?” 

**T don’t find it worth my while to cut things 
so fine as to go into the inquiry,” Fascination 
coolly answered. 

‘* Not in justice ?” 

** Bother justice !’* said Fledgeby. 

‘* Not in generosity ?” 

“Jews and generosity!” said Fledgeby. 
*“'That’s a good connection! Bring out your 
vouchers, and don’t talk Jerusalem palaver.” 

The vouchers were produced, and for the next 

f half hour Mr. Fledgeby concentrated his sublime 

_ attention onthem. ‘They and the accounts were 

all found correct, and the books and the papers 
resumed their places in the bag. 

** Next,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘concerning that 

-~ bill-broking branch of the business—the branch 

I like best. What queer bills are to be bought, 

and at what prices? You have got your list of 

what’s in the market ?” 


‘Sir, a long list,” replied Riah, taking out a~business. 


pocket-book, and selecting from its contents a 

folded paper, which, being unfolded, became a 

sheet of foolscap covered with close writing. 
“Whew!” whistled Fledgebv, as he took it in 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


| ‘¢Half the lump will he waste-paper, one 
knows beforehand,” said Fledgeby. ‘Can you 
get it at waste-paper price? ‘That’s the ques- 
tion.” 

‘Riah shook his head, and Fledgeby cast his 
small eyes down the list. They presently began 
to twinkle, and he no sooner became conscious 
of their twinkling, than he looked up over his 
shoulder at the grave face above him, and moved 
_to the chimney-piece. Making a desk of it, he 
stood there with his back to the old man, warm- 
ing his knees, perusing the list at his leisure, and 
often returning to some lines of it, as though 
they were particularly interesting. At those 
times he glanced in the chimney-glass to sce 
what note the old man took of him. He took 
none that could be detected, but, aware of his 
employer’s suspicions, stood with his eyes on the 
ground, ; 

Mr. Fledgeby was thus amiably engaged when | 
a step was heard at the outer door, and the door 
was heard to open hastily. ‘‘Hark! That’s 
your doing, yon Pump of Israel,” said Fledgeby ; 
‘‘you cant have shut it.” Then the step was 
heard within, and the voice of Mr. Alfred 
Lammle called aloud, ‘‘ Are you any where 
here, Fledgeby?” To which Fledgeby, after 
cautioning Riah in a low voice to take his cue 
as it should be given him, replied, ‘*‘ Here I am!” 
and opened his bedroom door. 

‘Come in!” said #ledgeby. ‘*This gentle- 
man is only Pubsey and Co. of Saint Mary Axe, 
that I am trying to make terms for an unfortu- 
nate friend with in a matter of some dishonored 
bills. But really Pubsey and Co. are so strict 
with their debtors, and so hard to move, that [ 
seem to be wasting my time. Can’t I make any 
terms, with you on my friend’s part, Mr. Riah ?” 

‘*T am but the representative of another, Sir,” 
returned the Jew, in a low voice. ‘JI do as I 
am bidden by my principal. It is not my capi- 
tal that is invested in the business. It is not my 
profit that arises therefrom.” 

‘*Ha ha!” laughed Fledgeby. 

“Ha ha!” laughed Lammle; 
course. We know.” 

**Devilish good, ain’t it, Lammle?” said 
Fledgeby, unspeakably amused by his hidden 
joke. 

‘* Always the same, always the same!” said 
Lammle. ‘ Mr, —” 

‘*Riah, Pubsey, and Co., Saint Mary Axe,” 
Fledgeby put in, as he wiped away the tears that 
trickled from his eyes, so rare was his enjoyment 
of his secret joke. 

‘*Mr. Riah is bound to observe the invariable 
forms for such case#made and provided,” suid 
Lammle. 

‘‘He is only the representative of another!” 
cried Fledgeby. ‘Does as he is told by his 
principal! Not his capital that’s invested in the 
Oh, that’s good! Ha ha ha ha!” 
| Mr. Lammle joined in the laugh and looked 
knowing; and the more he did both, the more ex- 
quisite the secret joke became for Mr. Fledgeby. 

‘* However,” said that fascinating gentl man, 


| 


| 


‘“*Lammle ?” 
*'V es, OE 


his hand. ‘Queer Street is full of lodgers just, wiping his eyes again, ‘¢if we go on in this way 
at present! These are to be disposed of in par-|| we shall seem to be almost mnking game of Mr. 


* eels; are they?” 


‘¢In parcels as set forth,” returned the old 


he 
7 


man, looking over his ‘naster’s shoulder; ‘‘ or 


the lump.” 


| Riah, or of Pubsey and. Co., Saint Mary Axe, or 
of somebody: which is far from our intention, 
Mr. Riah, if you would ‘have the kindness to 


_lstep into the next room for a few moments while 


OUR, MUTUAL FRIEND. 


T speak with Mr. Lammle here, I should like to 


191 
“No,” said Fledgeby; ‘provided you have 


try to make terms with you once again before ; brought my promissory note in your pocket, 


you go.”’ 

The old man, who had never raised his eyes 
during the whole transaction of Mr. Fledgeby’s 
joke, silently bowed and passed out by the door 
which Fledgeby opened for him. Having closed 
it on him, Fledgeby returned to Lammle, stand- 
ing with his back to the bedroom fire, with one 
hand under his coat-skirts, and all his whiskers 
in the other. 

‘*Halloo!” said Fledgeby, 
tang wrong!” ; 

‘** How do you know it ?”” demanded Lammle. 

*‘ Because you show it,” replied Fledgeby in 
unintentional rhyme. 

‘*Wellthen; thereis,” said Lammle; ‘there 
is something wrong; the whole thing’s wrong.” 

**T say!” remonstrated Fascination very slow- 
ly, and sitting down with his hands on his knees 
to stare at his glowering friend with his back to 
the fire. . 

**I tell you, Fledgeby,” repeated Lammle, 
with a sweep of his right arm, ‘the whole 
thing’s wrong. The game’s up.” — 

** What game’s up?” demanded Fledgeby, as 
slowly as before, and more sternly. 

‘THE game. Our game. Read that.” 

Fledgeby took a note from his extended hand 
and read it aloud. ‘‘ Alfred Lammle, Esquire. 
Sir: Allow Mrs. Podsnap and myself to express 
our united sense of the polite attentions of Mrs. 
Alfred Lammle and yourself toward our daugh- 
_ter, Georgiana. Allow us also wholly to reject 
them for the future, and to communicate our 
final desire that the two families may become 
entire strangers. I have the honor to be, Sir, 
your most obedient and very humble servant, 
JOHN Popsnap.” Fledgeby looked at the three 
biank sides of this note, quite as long and earn- 
estly as at the first expressive side, and then 
looked at Lammle, who_responded with another 
extensive sweep of his right arm. 

‘* Whose doing is this?” said Fledgeby. 

‘* Impossible to imagine,” said Lammle. 

** Perhaps,” suggested Fledgeby, after reflect- 
ing with a very discontented brow, ‘‘somebody 
has been giving you a bad character.” 

‘* Or you,” said Lammle, with a deeper frown. 

Mr. Fledgeby appeared to be on the verge of 
some mutinous expressions, when his hand hap- 
pened to touch his nose. A certain remem- 
brance connected with that feature operating as 
a timely warning, he took it thoughtfully be- 
tween his thumb and forefinger and pondered; 
Lammle meanwhile eying him with furtive eyes. 

“Well!” said Fledgeby. ‘‘This won't im- 
prove with talking about. If we ever find out 
who did it we’ll mark that person. There’s no- 
thing more to be said, except that you undertook 
_to do what circumstances prevent your doing.” 

“And that you undertook to do what you 
might have done by this time if you had made 
a prompter use of circumstances,” snarled 
Lammle. 

“Hah! That,” remarked Fledgeby, with his 
hands in the Turkish trowsers, ‘tis matter of 
opinion.” 

‘Mr. Fledgeby,” said Lammle, in a bullying 
tone, ‘‘am I to understand that you in any way 
reflect upon me, or hint dissatisfaction with me, 
_ in this affair ?” ; 


*'There’s some- 


shave sustained a loss here. 


hands, it must have been fancy. 


and now hand it over.” 

Lammle produced it, not without reluctance, 
Fledgeby looked at it, identified it, twisted it up, 
and threw it into the fire. ‘They both looked at 
it as it blazed, went out, and flew in feathery 
ash up the chimney. | 

‘Now, Mr. Fledgeby,” said Lammle, as be- 
fore; ‘‘am I to understand that. you in any way 
reflect upon me, or hint dissatisfaction with me, 
in this affair ?” 

‘*No,” said Fledgeby. 

‘* Finally and unreservedly no?” 

** Yes,/) 

** Rledgeby, my hand.” 

Mr. Fledgeby took it, saying, ‘‘And if we 
ever find out who did this, we’ll mark that per- 
son. And in the most. friendly manner let me 
mention one thing more. I don’t know what 
your circumstances are, and I don’t ask. You 
Many men are lia- 
ble to be involved at times, and you may be, or 
you may not be. But whatever you do, Lammle, 
don't—don't—don’t, I beg of you—ever fall into 
the hands of Pubsey and Co. in the next room, 
for they are grinders. Regular flayers and grind- 
ers, my dear Lammle,” repeated Fiedgeby with 
a peculiar relish, ‘‘and they'll skin you by the 
inch, from the nape of your neck to the sole of 
your foot, and grind every inch of your. skin to 
tooth-powder. You have seen what Mr. Riah 
is. Never fall into his hands, Lammile, I beg 
of you as a friend!” 

Mr. Lammie, disclosing some alarm at the so- 
lemnity of this affectionate adjuration, demand- 
ed why the devil he ever should fall into the 
hands of Pubsey and Co. ? 

‘To confess the fact, I was made a little un- 
easy,” said the candid Fledgeby, ‘by the man- 
ner in which that Jew looked at you when he 
heard your name. I didn’t like hiseye. But it 
may have been the heated fancy of a friend. Of 
course if you are sure that you have no personal 
security out, which you may not be quite equal 
to meeting, and which can have got into his 
Still, I didn’t 
like his eye.” ; 

The brooding Lammle, with certain white dints 
coming and going in his palpitating nose, looked 
as if some tormenting imp were pinching it. 
Fledgeby, watching him with a twitch in his 
mean face which did duty there for a smile, 
looked very like the tormentor who was pinching. 

“But I mustn’t keep him waiting too long,” 
said Fledgeby, ‘‘or he’ll revenge it on my tn- 
fortunate friend. | How’s vour very clever and 
agr€eable wife? She knows we have broken 
down ?” 

‘*T showed her the letter.” 

‘* Very much surprised?” asked Fledgeby. 

‘¢T think she would have been more so,” an- 
swered Lammle, ‘‘if there had been more go in 

ou ?” 

‘*Oh !—She lays it upon me, then ?” 

‘*Mr. Fledgeby, I will not have my words 
misconstrued,” 

‘*Don’t break out, Lammle,” urged Fledgeby, 
in a submissive tone, ‘‘ because there’s no occa- 
sion. I only asked aquestion. Then she don’t 
lay it upon me? To ask another question.” 

‘* No, Sir.” : 


192 

Very good, ” said Fledgeby, plainly seeing 
thatshedid. ‘*Mycompliments toher. Good- 
b ” 

They shook hands, and Lammle strode out 
pondering. i ledgeby saw him into the fog, and, 
returning to the fire'and musing with his face to 
it, stretched the legs of the rose-colored Turkish 
trowsers wide apart, and meditatively bent his 
knees, as if he were going down upon them. 

‘¢ You have a pair of whiskers, Lummle, which 
I never liked,” murmured Fledgeby, ‘‘and which 
money can’t produce; you are boastful of your 
manners and your conversation ; you wé anted to 
pull my nose, and you have let me in for a fail- 
ure, and your wife says I am the cause of it. 
Tl ‘bowl you down. I will, though I have no 
whiskers,” here he rubbed the places where they 
were due, ‘‘and no manners, and no conversa- 
tion |” 

Having thus relieved his noble mind, he col- 
lected the legs of the Turkish trowsers, straight- 
ened himself on his knees, and called out to 
Riah in the next room, ‘‘ Halloo, you Sir!” At 
sight of the old man re-entering with a gentle- 
ness monstrously in contrast with the character 
he had given him, Mr. Fledgeby was so tickled 
again, that he exclaimed, laughing, ‘‘ Good! 
Good! Upon my soul it is uncommon good !” 

‘¢Now, old ’un,” proceeded Fledgeby, when 
he had had his laugh out, ‘‘you’ll buy up these 
lots that I mark with my pencil—there’s a tick 
there, and a tick there, and a tick there—and I 
wager twopence you'll afterward go on a squeez- 
ing those Christians like the Jew you are. Now, 
next you'll want a check—or you'll say you want 
it, though you’ve capital enough somewhere, if 
one only knew where, but you'd be peppered 
and salted and grilled on a gridiron before you'd 
own to it—and that check I'll write.” 

When he had unlocked a drawer and taken a 
key from it to open another drawer, in which 
was another key that opened another drawer, in 
which was another key that opened another 
drawer, in which was the check-book; and when 
he had written the check; and when, reversing 
the key and drawer process, he had placed his 
check-book in safety again, he beckoned the 
old man, with the folded check, to come and 
take it. 

“Old ’un,” said Fledgeby, when the Jew had 
put it in his pocket-book, and was putting that 
in the breast of his outer garment; ‘‘so much 
at present for my affairs. Now a word about 
affairs that are not exactly mine. Where is 
she ?” 

With his hand not yet withdrawn from the 
breast of his garment, Riah started and paused. 

“Oho!” said Fledgeby. ‘‘ Didn’t expect it! 
Where have you hidden her?” 

Showing that he was taken by surprise, the 
old man looked at his master with some passing 
confusion, which the master highly enjoyed. 

‘*¢ Is she in the house [ pay rent and taxes for 
in Saint Mary Axe ?” demanded Fledgeby. 

PING, Sur: 

‘Ts she in your garden up atop of that house 
—gone up to be dead, or whatever the game is?” 
asked Fledgeby. 

‘*No, Sir.” 

‘¢ Where is she then ?” 

Riah bent his eyes upon the ground, as if con- 
sidering whether he could answer the question 


roic bravery is flight.’ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


without breach of faith, and then silently raised 
them to Fledgeby’s face, as if he could ‘not. 

“Come!” said Fledgeby. ‘‘ I won't press that 
just now. But I want to know this, and I will’ 
know this, mind you. What are you up to?” ~ 

The old man, with an apologetic action of his 
head and hands, as not comprehending the mas- 
ter’s meaning, addressed to him a look of mute ~ 
inquiry. 

‘You can’t be a gallivanting dodger,” said 
Fledgeby. ‘* For you're a ‘regular pity the sor- 
rows,’ you know—if you do know any Christian 
rhyme—‘ whose trembling limbs have borne hin 
to’—et cetrer. You're one of the Patriarchs; 
yowre a shaky old card; and you can’t be in 
love with this Lizzie?” 

‘*Oh, Sir!” expostulated Riah. 
Sir, Sir!” 

‘¢Then why,” retorted Fledgeby, with some 
slight tinge of a blush, ‘‘ don’t you out with your 
reason for having your spoon in the sonp at all 2?” 

‘Sir, I will tell you the truth. But (your 
pardon for the stipulation) it is in sacred confi- 
dence; it is strictly upon honor.” 

‘¢ Honor too!” cried Fledgeby, with a mocking 
lip. ‘* Honor among Jews. Well. Cut away.” 

‘¢Tt is upon honor, Sir?” the other still stip- 
ulated, with respectful firmness. 

**QOh, certainly. Honor brigh 
by. 

The old man, never bidden to sit down, stood 
with an earnest hand laid on the back of the 
young man’s easy-chair. The young man sat 
looking at the fire with a face of listening curi- 
osity, ready to check him off and catch him 
tripping. 

“Cut aw ay, » 
your motive.’ 

‘¢Sir, Ihave no motive but to help the help- 
less.” 

Mr. Fledgeby could only express the feelings 
to which this incredible statement gave rise in 
his breast by a prodigiously long derisive sniff. 

“ How I came to know, and much to esteem 
and to respect, this damsel, I mentioned when 
you saw her in my poor garden on the house- 
top,” said the Jew. 

‘“‘Pid you?” said Fledgeby, distrustfully. 
‘¢ Well, perhaps you did, though.” 

‘¢The better I knew her, the more interest I 
felt in her fortunes. They gathered to a crisis. 
I found her beset by a selfish and ungrateful 
brother, beset by an unacceptable wooer, beset 
by the snares of a more powerful lover, beset by 
the wiles of her own heart.” 

‘¢She took to one of the chaps then ?” 

‘¢Sir, it was only natural that she should in- 
cline toward him, for he had many and great ad- 

vantages. But he was not of her station, and 
to marry her was not in his mind. Perils were 
closing round her, and the circle was fast dark- 
ening, when I—being as you have said, Sir, too 
old and broken to be suspected of any feeling for 
her but a father’s—stepped in, and counseled 
flight. I said, ‘My daughter, there are times 
‘of moral danger when the hardest virtuous reso- 
lution to form is flight, and when the most he- | 
She answered, she had — 
had this in her thoughts; but whither to fly with-_ 
out help she knew not, and there were none to” 
help her. I showed her there was one to hel, ) 
her, and it was I. And she is gone.” 


‘Oh, Sir, 


said Fledge- 


said Fledgeby. ‘‘ Start with 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘* What did you do with her?” asked Fledge- 
by, feeling his cheek. 

“*T placed her,” said the old man, ‘at a dis- 
tance ;” with a grave, smooth, outward sweep 
from one another of his two open hands at arm’s- 
length; ‘‘at a distance—among certain of our 
people, where her industry would serve her, and 
where she could hope to exercise it, unassailed 
from any quarter.” ; 

Fledgeby’s eyes had come from the fire to no- 
tice the action of his hands when he said ‘at a 
distance.’’ Fledgeby now tried (very unsuccess- 
fully) to imitate that action, as he shook his head 
and said, ‘‘ Placed her in that direction, did 
you? Qh you circular old dodger !” 

With one hand across his breast and the oth- 
er on the easy-chair, Riah, without justifying 
himself, waited for further questioning. But 
that it was hopeless to question him on that one 
reserved point, Fledgeby, with his small eyes too 
near together, saw full well. 

‘* Lizzie,” said Fledgeby, looking at the fire 
again, and then looking up. ‘‘ Humph, Lizzie. 
You didn’t tell me the other name in your gar- 
den atop of the house. I'll be more communi- 
Caiive with you. The other name’s Hexam.” 

Riah bent his head in assent. 

**Look here, you Sir,” said Fledgeby. ‘‘I 
have a notion I know something of the invei- 
gling chap, the powerful one. 
to do with the law?” 

**Nominally, I believe it his calling.” 

““[ thought so. Name any thing like Light- 
wood ?” 

“Sir, not at all like.” 

‘*“Come, old 'un,” said Fledgeby, meeting his 
eyes with a wink, ‘‘say the name.” 

‘* Wrayburn.” ; 

‘‘ By Jupiter!”ecried Fledgeby. ‘* That one, 
is it? I thought it might be the other, but I 
never dreamt of.that one! I shouldn’t object 
to your balking either of the pair, dodger, for 
they are both conceited enough ; but that one is 

scool a customer as ever I met with. Got a 
eard besides, and presumes_upon-it. Well 

Brightened by this unexpected commenda- 
tion, Riah asked were there more instructions 
for him ? 

‘*No,” said Fledgeby, ‘“‘ you may toddle now, 
Judah, and grope about on the orders you have 
got.” Dismissed with those pleasing words, the 
old man took his broad hat and staff and left 
the great presence: more asif he were some su- 
perior creature benignantly blessing Mr. Fledge- 
by than the poor dependent on whom he set his 
foot. Left alone, Mr. Fledgeby locked his out- 
er door and came back to his fire. 

‘‘ Well done you!” said Fascination to him- 
self. ‘Slow, you may be; sure, you are!” 
This he twice or thrice repeated with much 
complacency, as he again dispersed the legs of 
the Turkish trowsers and bent the knees. 

‘* A tidy shot that, I flatter myself,” he then 
soliloquized. ‘‘And a Jew brought down with 
it! Now, when I heard the story told at Lam- 
mle’s, I didn’t make a jump at Riah. Not a bit 
of it; I got at him by degrees.”” Herein he was 
quite accurate; it being his habit not to jump, 
or leap, or make an upward spring, at atiy thing 
in life, but to crawl at every thing. 


‘I got at him,” pursucd Fledgeby, feeling 


: 
ae 
Be, ; 


Has he any thing | 


193 


for his whisker, ‘‘by degrees. If your Lam- 
mles or your Lightwoods had got at him any- 
how, they would have asked him the question 
whether he hadn’t something to do with that 
gal’s disappearance. I knew a better way of go- 
ing to work. Having got behind the hedge, and 
put him in the light, I took a shot at him and 
brought him down plump. Oh! It don’t count 
for much, being a Jew, in a match against me /” 

Another dry twist in place of a smile made 
his face crooked here. 

‘‘As to Christians,” proceeded Fledgeby, 
‘look out, fellow-Christians, particularly you 
that lodge in Queer Street! I have got the run 
of, Queer Street now, and you shall see some 

o * 
games there. To work a lot of power over you 
and you not know it, knowing as you think your- 
selves, would be almost worth laying out money 
upon. But when it comes to squeezing a profit 
out of you into the bargain, it’s something like!” 

With this apostrophe Mr. Fledgeby appropri- 
ately proceeded to divest himself of his Turkish 
garments, and invest himself with Christian at- 
tire. Pending which operation, and his morn- 
ing ablutions, and his anointing of himself with 
the last infallible preparation for the production 
of luxuriant and glossy hair upon the human 
countenance (quacks being the only sages he be- 
ieved in besides usurers), the murky fog closed 
ibout him and shut him up in its sooty embrace. 

f it had never let him out any more, the world 
ould have had no irreparable loss, but could 
ave easily replaced him from its stock on hand. 


-_ 


CHAPTER II. 
A RESPECTED FRIEND IN A NEW ASPECT. 


In the evening of this same foggy day when 
the yellow window-blind of Pubsey and Co. was 
drawn down upon the day’s work, Riah the Jew 
once more came forth into Saint Mary Axe. 
But this time he carried no bag, and was not 
bound on his master’s affairs. He passed over 
London Bridge, and returned to the Middlesex 
shore by that of Westminster, and so, ever wad- 
ing through the fog, waded to the door-step of 
the dolls’ dress-maker. 

Miss Wren expected him. He could see her 
through the window by the light of her low fire 
—carefully banked up with damp cinders that it 
might last the longer and waste the less when 
she was out—sitting waiting for him in her bon- 
net. His tap at the glass roused her from the 
musing solitude in which she sat, and she came 
to the door to open it; aiding her steps with a 
little crutch-stick. 

‘“*Good-evening, godmother !” said Miss Jen- 
ny Wren. 

The old man laughed, and gave her his arm 
to lean on. 

‘¢Won’t yon come in and warm yourself, god- 
mother?” asked Miss Jenny Wren. 

“Not if you are ready, Cinderella, my dear.” 

“Well!” exclaimed Miss Wren, delighted. 
‘¢Now you ARE a clever old boy! If we gave 
prizes at this establishment (but we only keep 
blanks), you should have the first silver medal 
for taking me up so quick.” As she spake thus, 
Miss Wren removed the key of the house-door 
from the keyhole and put it in her pocket, and. 


194 


then bustlingly closed the door, and tried it as 
they both stood on the step. Satisfied that her 
dwelling was sate, she drew one han& through 
the old man’s arm and prepared to ply her 
erutch-stick with the other.. But the key was an 
instrument of such gigantic proportions, that be- 
fore they started Riah proposed to carry it. 

‘CNo, no, no! Tl carry it myself,” returned 
Miss Wren. ‘*I’m awfully lopsided, you know, 
and stowed down in my pocket it'll trim the ship. 
To let you into a secret, godmother, I wear my 
pocket on my high side, 0’ purpose.” 

With that they began their plodding through 
the fog. 

‘¢ Yes, it was truly sharp of you, godmother,” 
resumed Miss Wren with great approbation, 
‘*to understand me. But, you see, you are so 
like the fairy. godmother in the bright little 
books! You look so unlike the rest of people, 
and so much as if you had changed yourself 
into that shape, just this moment, with some 
benevolent object. Boh!” cried Miss Jenny, 
putting her face close tothe old man’s. ‘*I can 
see your features, godmother, behind the beard.” 

** Does the fancy go to my changin& other ob- 
jects too, Jenny ?” 

‘*Ah!’ That it-does! If you'd only borrow 
my stick, and tap this piece of pavement—this 
dirty stone that my foot taps—it would start up 
a coach and six. Isay! Let’s believe so!” 

‘‘With all my heart,” replied the good old 
man. 

“And Dll tell you what I must ask you to do, 
godmother. I must ask you to be so kind as 
give my child a tap, and change him altogether. 
O my child has been such a bad, bad child of 
Jate! It worries me nearly out of my wits. Not 
done a stroke of work these ten days. Has had 
the horrors, too, and fancied that four copper- 
colored men in red wanted to throw him into a 
fiery furnace.” 

‘« But that’s dangerous, Jenny.” 

‘* Dangerous, godmother?” My bad child is 
always dangerous, more or less. He might”— 
here the little creature glanced back over her 
shoulder at the sky—‘‘ be setting the house on 
fire at this present moment. I don’t know who 
would have a child, for my part! It’s no use 
shaking him. I have shaken him till I have 
made myself giddy. ‘Why don’t you mind 
your Commandments and honor your parent, 
you naughty old boy?’ I said to him all the 
time, But he only whimpered and stared at me.” 

‘¢ What shall be changed, after him?” asked 
Riah, in a compassionately playful voice. 

ms Upon my word, godmother, I am afraid I 
nust be selfish next, and get you to set me right 
_n.the back and the legs. It’s a little thing to 

-ou with your power, godmother, but it’s a great 
deal to poor weak aching me.” 

There was no querulous complaining in the 
words, but they were not the less touching for 
that. 

“*.And then?” 

Yes, and then— you know, godmother. 
‘“We’ll both jump up into the coach and six and 
go to Lizzie. This reminds me, godmother, to 
ask you a serious question. You are as wise as 
wise can be (having been brought up by the 
fairies), and you can tell me this: Is it better 
to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to 
have had it?” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


«Explain, god-daughter.” 
‘J feel so-much more solitary and helpless 


without Lizzie now, than I used to feel before I 


knew her.” 
said so.) 

“Some beloved companionship fades out of 
most lives, my dear,” said the Jew—‘‘that of a. 
wife; and a fair daughter, and a son of promise, 
has faded out of my own life—but the happiness 
was,’ 

‘*Ah!” said Miss Wren thoughtfully, by no 
means convinced, and chopping the exclama- 
tion with that sharp little hatchet of hors; 
‘then I tell you what change I think you had 
better begin with, godmother. You had better 
change Is into Was and Was into Is, and keep 
them so.” 

‘* Would that suit your case? Would you 
not be always in pain then t ?” asked the old man, 
tenderly. 

‘Right! exclaimed Miss Wren vat another 
chop. ‘*You have changed me wiser, god- 
mother.—Not,” she added with the quaint hitch 
of her chin and eyes, **that you need be a very 
wonderful godmother to do that deed.” 

Thus conversing, and having crossed West- 
minster Bridge, they traversed the ground that 
Riah had lately traversed, and new ground like- 
wise; for, when they had recrossed the Thames, 
by way of London Bridge, they struck down hy 
the river and held their still foggier course that 
way. 

But previously, as they were going along, 
Jenny twisted her venerable friend aside to a 
brilliantly-lighted toy-shop window, and said: 
‘** Now look at ’em! All my work!” 

This referred to a dazzling semicircle of dolls 
in all the colors of the rainbow, who were dressed 
for presentation at court, for going to balls, for 
going out driving, for going out on horseback, 
for going out walking, for going to get married, 
for going to help other dolls to get married, for 
all the gay events of life. 

‘“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” said the old man 
with a clap of his hands. ‘*Most elcgant 
taste!” 

‘*Glad you like ‘em,” returned Miss Wren, 
loftily. ‘*But the fun is, godmother, how I 

make the great ladies try my dresses on. Though 
it’s the hardest part of my business, and weuld 
be, even if my back were not bad and my legs 
queer,”’ 

He looked at her ‘as not-understanding what 
she said. 

**Bless you, godmother,” said Miss Wren, 
‘*T have to scud about town at all hours, If it 
was only sitting at my bench, eutting out and 
sewing, it would be comparatively easy work; 
but it’s the trying-on by the great ladies that 
takes it out of me.” 

‘How, the trying-on ?”” asked Riah. 

‘What a moonev godmother you are, after 
all!” returned Miss Wren. ‘ Look here. There’ $ 
a Drawing-Room, or a grand day in the Park, 
or a Show, or a Féte, or what you like. Very 
well. I squeeze among the crowd, and I Jook 
about me. When I see a great lady very suita- 
ble for my business, I say, ‘ You'll do, my dear!’ 
and I take particular notice of her, and run 
home and cut her out and baste her. Then an- 
other day I come scudding back again and try 
on, and then I take particular notice of her > 


(‘Tears were in her eyes as she 


i es 
| aay 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


195 


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TRYING ON FOR THE .DOLLS’ DRESS-MAKER. 


admiring with all my eves and heart, but they 


al 
WAYS 
SX 
avain. Sometimes she plainly seems to say, 


‘How that little creature is staring !’ and some- 
times likes it and sometimes don’t, but much 
More often yes than no. All the time I am 
only saying to myself, ‘I must hollow out a bit 
here ; I must slope away there,’ and I am mak- 
ing a perfect slave of her, with making her try 
on my doll’s dress. Evening parties are severer 
work for me, because there’s only a doorway for 
a full view, and what with hobbling among the 
wheels of the carriages and the legs of the horses, 
I fully expect to be run over some night. How- 
ever, there I have ’em, just the same. When 
they go bobbing into the hall from the carriage, 
and catch a glimpse of my little physiognomy 
poked out from behind a policeman’s cape in the 
rain, I dare say they think I am wondering and 
a of 


little think they’re only working for my dolls! 
There was Lady Belinda Whitrose. I made 
her do double duty in one night. T said when 
she came out of the carriage, * Youll do, my 
dear!’ and I ran straight home and cut her out 
and basted her. Back I came again, and wait- 
ed behind the men that called the carriages. 
Very bad night too. At last, ‘adv Belinda 
Whitrose’s carriage! Lady Belinda Whitrose 
coming down!’ And I made her try on—oh! 
and take pains about it too—hefore she got seat- 
ed. That’s Lady Belinda hanging up by the 
waist, much too near the gaslight for a wax 
one, with her toes turned in.” ; ; 
When they had plodded on for some time nigh 
the river, Riah asked the way to a certain tavern 


196 


called the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters. Fol- 
lowing the directions he received, they arrived, 
after two or three puzzled stoppages for consid- 
eration, and some uncertain looking about them, 
at the door of Miss Abbey Potterson’s dominions. 
A peep through the glass portion of the door re- 
vealed to them the glories of the bar, and Miss 
a\bbey herself seated in state on her snug throne, 
reading the newspaper. 
ence, thev presented themselves. 

Taking her eyes off her newspaper, and paus- 
ine with a suspended expression of countenance, 
as if she must finish the paragraph in hand be- 
fore undertaking any other business whatever, 
Miss Abbey demanded, with aome slight asperi- 
ty: *‘ Now, then, what’s for you?” 

“Gould we see Miss Potterson?” asked the 
old man, uncovering his head. 


> <You"not only could, but you can and -you 
do,” replied the hostess. 

‘‘ Might we speak with you, madam ?” 

By this time Miss Abbey’s eyes had possessed 
themselves of the small figure of Miss Jenny 
Wren. For the closer observation of which, 
Miss Abbey laid aside her newspaper, rose, and 
looked over the half-door of the bar. The 
crutch-stick seemed to entreat for its owner leave 
to come in and rest by the fire; so Miss Abbey 
opened the half-door, and said, as though reply- 
ing to the crutch-stick: ‘* Yes, come in and rest 
by the fire.” 

‘‘My name is Riah,” said the old man, with 
courteous action, ‘‘and my avocation is in Lon- 
don city. This, my young companion—” 

‘Stop a bit,” interposed Miss Wren, ‘I'll 
give the lady my card.” She produced it from 
her pocket with an air, after struggling with the 
gigantic door-key which had got upon the top 
of it and kept it down. Miss Abbey, with man- 
ifest tokens of astonishment, took the diminutive 
document, and found it to run concisely thus: 


MISS JENNY WRENN, 
DOLLS’ DRESS-MAKER. 


Polls attended at their own Residences. 


‘¢Tud!” exclaimed Miss Potterson, staring. 
And dropped the card. 

‘‘We take the liberty of coming, my young 
companion and J, madam,” said Riah, ‘‘ on be- 
half of Lizzie Hexam.” 

Miss Potterson was stooping to loosen the bon- 
net-strings of the dolls’ dress-maker. She looked 
round rather angrily, and said: ‘‘ Lizzie Hexam 
is a very proud young woman.” 

‘*« She would be so proud,” returned Riah, dex- 
trously, “to stand well in your good opinion, 
that before she quitted London for—” 

‘“‘ For where, in the name of the Cape of Good 
Hope?” asked Miss Potterson, as though sup- 
posing her to have emigrated. 

‘For the country,”’ was the cautious answer— 
‘¢she made us promise to come and show you a 
paper, which she left in our hands for that spe- 
cial purpose. I am an unserviceable friend of 
hers, who began to know her after her departure 
from this neighborhood. She has been for some 
time living with my young companion, and has 
been a helpful and a comfortable friend to her, 
Much needed, madam,” he added, in a lower 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. Hye: 


To whom, with defer- | 


voice. ‘Believe me; if you knew all, much . 
needed.” 

“1 can believe that,” said Miss Abbey, with 
a softening glance at the little creature. 

‘¢ And if it’s proud to have a heart that never 
hardens, and a temper that never tires, anda 
touch that never hurts,’’ Miss Jenny struck in, 
flushed, ‘she is proud. And if it’s not, she is 
NOT.” st 

Her set purpose of contradicting Miss Abbey 
point-blank, was so far from offending that dread 
authority as to elicit a gracious smile. ‘* You | 
do right, child,” said Miss Abbey, ‘‘ to speak well 
of those who deserve well of you.” : 

: 


‘‘ Right or wrong,” muttered Miss Wren, in- 
audibly, with a visible hitch of her chin, “I 
mean to do it, and you may make up your mind 
to that, old lady.” 

‘Here is the paper, madam,” said the Jew, 
delivering into Miss Potterson’s hands the orig- 
inal document drawn up by Rokesmith, and — 
signed by Riderhood. ‘* Will you please to read — 
it?” 

‘But first of all,” said Miss Abbey, ‘‘—did 
you ever taste shrub, child ?” 

Miss Wren shook her head. 

‘* Should you like to?” 

‘¢ Should if it’s good,” returned Miss Wren. 

‘You shall try. And, if you find it good, I'll 
mix some for you with hot water. Put your 
poor little feet on the fender. It’s a cold, cold 
night, and the fog clings so.” As Miss Abbey 
helped her to turn her chair her loosened bonnet 
dropped on the floor. ‘* Why, what lovely hair!” 
cried Miss Abbey. ‘And enough to make wigs 
for all the dolls in the world. What a quan- 
tity!” 

‘¢ Call that a quantity ?” returned Miss Wren. 
‘¢Poof! What do you say to the rest of it?” 
As she spoke, she untied a band, and the golden 
stream fell over herself and over the chair, and 
flewed down to the ground. Miss Abbey’s ad- 
miration seemed to increase her perplexity. She 
beckoned the Jew toward her, as she reached 
down the shrub-bottle from its niche, and whis- 

ered: 

‘¢ Child, or woman ?” 

‘¢Child in years,” was the answer ; ‘‘ woman 
in self-reliance and trial.” e 

‘You are talking about Me, good people,” 
thought Miss Jenny, sitting in her golden bower, — 
warming her feet. ‘‘I can’t hear what you say, 
but Z know your tricks and your manners!” 

The shrub, when tasted from a spoon, perfect=_ 
ly harmonizing with Miss Jenny’s palate, a ju= 
dicious amount was mixed by Miss Potterson’s — 
skillful hands, whereof Riah too partook. After 
this preliminary Miss Abbey read the document 5 
and, as often as she raised her eyebrows in so __ 
doing, the watchful Miss Jenny accompanied the — 
action with an expressive and emphatic sip of the 
shrub and water. . 

“As far as this goes,” said Miss Abbey Pot-_ 
terson, when she had read it several times, and — 
thought about it, ‘‘it proves (what didn’t much” 
need proving) that Rogue Riderhood is a villain 
I have my doubts whether he is not the villaim 
who solely did the deed; but I have no expect- 
ation of those doubts ever being cleared up now. 


Lizzie’s self; because when things were at the — 
worst I trusted her, had perfect confidence in 


ha * ) Ny ™ 
ae SB: ? SES ty ieee Sa c os 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


her, and tried to persuade her to come to me for 
arefuge. I am very sorry to have done a man 
‘wrong, particularly when it can’t be undone. 
_ Be kind enough to let Lizzie know what I say ; 
not forgetting that if she will come to the Por- 
ters, after all, by-gones being by-gones, she will 
find a home at the Porters, and a friend at the 
Porters. She knows Miss Abbey of old, remind 
her, and she knows what-like the home, and 
what-like the friend, 1s likely to turn out. Iam 
generally short and sweet—or short and sour, 
according as it may be and as opinions vary—” 
remarked Miss Abbey, ‘‘and that’s about all I 
have got to say, and enough too.” 

But before the shrub and water was sipped 
out, Miss Abbey bethought herself that she would 
like to keep a copy of the paper by rer.) i" Tt’s 
not long, Sir,” said she to Riah, “and perhaps 
you wouldn’t mind just jotting it down.” The 
old man willingly put on his spectacles, and, 
standing at the little desk in the corner where 
Miss Abbey filed her receipts and kept her sam- 
ple vials (customers’ scores were interdicted by 
the strict administration of the Porters), wrote 
out the copy in a fair round character. As he 
stood ‘there, doing his methodical penmanship, 
his ancient scribe-like figure intent upon the 
work, and the little dolls’ dress-maker sitting in 
her golden bower before the fire, Miss Abbey had 
her doubts whether she had not dreamed those 
two rare figures into the bar of the Six Jolly Fel- 
lowships, and might not wake with a nod next 
moment and find them gone. 

_ Miss Abbey had twice made the experiment 
of shutting her eyes and opening them again, 
still finding the figures there, when, dream-like, 
a confused hubbub arose in the public room. 
As she started up, and they all three looked at 
one another, it became a noise of clamoring 
voices and of the stir of feet; then all the win- 
dows were heard to be hastily thrown up, and 
shouts and cries came floating into the house 
from the river. A moment more, and Bob Glid- 
dery came clattering along the passage, with the 
noise of all the nails in his boots condensed into 
every separate nail. 

“What is it?” asked Miss Abbey. 

“*T’s summut run down in the fog, ma’am,” 
answered Bob. ‘‘There’s ever so many people 
in the river.” 

“Tell "em to put on all the kettles!” cried 
Miss Abbey. “See that the boiler’s full. Gat 
a bath out. Hang some blankets to the fire. 
Heat some stone bottles. Have your senses 
about you, you girls down stairs, and use ’em.”' 

While Miss Abbey partly delivered these di- 
rections to Bob—whom she seized by the hair, 
and whose head she knocked against the wall, 
as a general injunction to vigilance and pres- 
ence of mind—and partly hailed the kitchen 
with them—the company in the public room, 
jostling one another, rushed out to the cause- 
Way, and the outer noise increased. 

“Come and look,” said Miss Abbey to her 
Visitors. They all three hurried to the vacated 
public room, and passed by one of the windows 
into the wooden veranda overhanging the river, 

“Does any body down there know what has 
happened ?”” demanded Miss Abbey, in her voice 
ofauthority, 
_ it’sasteamer, Miss Abbey,” cried one blurred 
figure in the fog. — 


197 


‘It always is a steamer, Miss Abbey,” cried 
another. 

‘* Them’s her lights, Miss Abbey, wot you seo 
a-blinking yonder,” cried another. i 

*‘She’s a-blowing off her steam, 
and that’s what makes the fog and the noise 
worse, don’t you see?” explained another. 

Boats were putting off, torches were lighting 
up, people were rushing tumultuously. to the 
water’s edge. Somé man fell in with a splash, 
and was pulled out again with a roar of laugh- 
ter. The drags were called for. A cry for the 
life-buoy passed from mouth to mouth: It was 
impossible to make out what was going on upon 
the river, for every boat that put off sculled into 
the fog and was lost to view at a boat’s-length. 
Nothing was clear but that the unpopular steam- 
cr was assailed with reproaches on all sides. 
She was the Murderer, bound for Gallows Bay; 
she was the Manslaughterer, bound for Penal 
Settlement; her captain ought to be tried for 
his life; her crew ran down men in row-boats 
with a relish; she mashed up Thames lighter- 
men with her paddles; she fired property with 
her funnels; she always was, and she always 
would be, wreaking destruction upon somebody 
or something, after the manner of all her kind. 
The whole bulk of the fog teemed with such 
faunts, uttered in tones of universal hoarseness, 
All the while the steamer’s lights moved spec- 
trally a very little, as she lay-to, waiting the 
upshot of whatever accident had happened, 
Now she began burning blue-lights. These 
made a luminous patch about her, as if she had 
set the fog on fire, and in the patch—the cries 
changing their note, and becoming more fitful 
and more excited—shadows of men and boats 
could be seen moving, while voices shouted : 
“There!” “There again!” “*A couple more 
strokes ahead!” “Hurrah!” **Look out!” 
‘Hold on!” ‘Hanlin! and the like. Last- 
ly, with a few tumbling clots of blue fire, the 
night closed in dark again, the wheels of the 
steamer were heard revolving, and her lights 
glided smoothly away in the direction of the 
sea. 

It appeared to Miss Abbey and her two com- 
panions that a considerable time had been thus 
occupied. There was now as eager a set to- 
ward the shore beneath the house as there had 
been from it; and it was only on the first boat 
of the rush coming in that it was known what 
had occurred. 

‘*Tf that’s Tom Tootle,” Miss Abbey made 
proclamation, in her most commanding tones, 
‘*let him instantly come underneath here.” 

The submissive Tom complied, attended by a 
crowd. 

‘What 1s it, Tootle ?” demanded Miss Abbey. 

‘‘Tt’s a foreign steamer, Miss, run down a 
wherry.” 

‘*How many in the wherry ?” 

‘*Qne man, Miss Abbey.” 

** Found ?” : 

“‘Yes. He’s been under water a long time, 
Miss; but they’ve grappled up the body.” 

*‘Let ’em bring it here. You, Bob Gliddery, 
shut the house-door, and stand by it on the in- 
side, and don’t you open till I tell you. Any 
police down there ?” : an 

‘‘Here, Miss Abbey,” was official rejoinder. 

“After they have brought the body in, keep 


Miss Abbey, 


maw 
t 


198 
the crowd out, will you? 
dery to shut ‘em out.” 

“ All right, Miss Abbey.” 

The autocratic landlady withdrew into the 
house with Riah and Miss Jenny, and disposed 
those forces, one on either side of her, within 
the half-door of the bar, as behind a breast-work. 

‘You two stand close here,” said Miss Abbey, 
‘<and you'll come to no hurt, and see it brought 
in. Bob, you stand by the door.” 

That sentinel, smartly giving his rolled shirt- 
sleeves an extra and a final tuck on his shoul- 
ders, obeyed. 

Sound of advancing voices, sound of advanc- 
ing steps. Shufile and talk without, Moment- 
ary pause. ‘I'wo peculiarly blunt knocks or 
pokes at the door, as if the dead man arriving 
on his back were striking at it with the soles of 
his motionless feet. 

‘<'That’s the stretcher, or the shutter, which- 
ever of the two they are carrying,” said Miss 
Abbey, with expericnced ear. ‘Open, you 
Bob!” 

Door opened. Heavy tread of ladenmen. A 

halt. A rush. Stoppage of rush. Door shut, 
Baffled hoots from the vexed souls of disappoint- 
ed outsiders. 

‘“Come on, men!” said Miss Abbey; for so 
potent was she with her subjects that even then 
the bearers awaited her permission, ‘*‘ First- 
floor.” 

The entry being low, and the staircase being 
low, they so took up the burden they had set 
down as to carry that low. The recumbent fig- 
ure, in passing, lay hardly as high as the half- 
door. 

Miss Abbey started back at sight of it. “ Why, 
good God!” said she, turning to her two com- 
-panions, ‘‘that’s the very man who made the 
{declaration we have just had in our hands. 

. That’s Riderhood !” 


And help Bob Glid- 


—_——__@—_——__ 


CHAPTER III. 


THLE SAME RESPECTED FRIEND IN MORE AS- 
PECTS THAN ONE. 


In sooth, it is Riderhood and no other, or it is 
the outer hu8k and’shell of Riderhood and no 
other, that is borne into Miss Abbey’s first-floor 
bedroom. Supple to twist and turn as the Rogue 
has ever been, he is sufficiently rigid now; and 
not without much shuffling of attendant feet, and 
tilting of his bier this way and that way, and 
peril even of his sliding off it and being tumbled 
in a heap over the balustrades, can he be got up 
stairs. 

‘¢ Fetch a doctor,” quoth Miss Abbey. And 
then, ‘‘Fetch his daughter.” On both of which 
errands quick messengers depart. 

The doctor-seeking messenger meets the doc- 
tor half-way, coming under convoy of police. 
Doctor examines the dank carcass, and pro- 
nounces, not hopefully, that it is worth while 
trying to reanimate the same. 
means are at once in action, and every body 
present lends a hand, anda heart and soul. No 
one has the least regard for the man; with them 
all he has been an object of avoidance, suspicion, 
and aversion; but the spark of life within him is 


curiously separable from himself now, and they | 


All the best | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. Hae 


have a deep interest in it, probably because it #s 
life, and they are living and must die, 

In answer to the doctor’s inquiry how did it 
happen, and was any one to blame, Tom Tootle 
gives in his verdict, unavoidable accident, and no 
one to blame but the sufferer. ‘* He was slink- 
ing about in his boat,” says Tom, ** which slink- 
ing were, not to speak ill of the dead, the man- 
ner of the man, when he come right athwart the 
steamer’s bows and she cut him in two.” Mr. 
Tootle is so far figurative, touching the dismem- 
berment, as that he means the boat, and not the 
man. For the man lies whole before them. 

Captain Joey, the bottle-nosed regular cus- 
tomer in the glazed hat, is a pupil of the much- 
respected old school, and (having insinuated 
himself into the chamber, in the execution of the 
important service of carrying the drowned man’s 
neckerchief) favors the doctor with a sagacious 
old-scholastic suggestion that the body should be 
hung up by the heels, ‘‘sim’lar,” says Captain 
Joey, “*to mutton in a butcher’s shop,” and 
should then, as a particularly choice manceuvre 
for promoting easy respiration, be rolled upon 
casks. 
tain’s ancestors are received with such speechless 
indignation by Miss Abbey, that she instantly 


These scraps,of the wisdom of the cap-_ 


seizes the captain by the collar, and without a — 


single word ejects him, not presuming to remon- 
strate, from the scene. 


There then remain, to assist the doctor and — 


Tom, only those three other regular customers, 
Bob Glamour, William Williams, and Jonathan 


‘ 
4 


(family name of the latter, if any, unknown to” 


mankind), who are quite enough. 


Miss Abbey 


having looked in to make sure that nothing is i 
wanted, descends to the bar, and there awaits © 


the result, with the gentle Jew and Miss Jenny 
Wren. 


If you are not gone for good, Mr. Riderhood, — 


it would be something to know where you are — 


hiding at present. This flabby lump of mor- 
tality that we work so hard at with such patient 
perseverance, yields no sign of you. If you are 
gone for good, Rogue, it is very solemn, and if 
you are coming back, it is hardly less so. 


Nay, © 
in the suspense and mystery of the latter ques-— 
tion, involving that of where you may be now, — 


y 

| 
ry 
4) 


there is a solemnity-even added to that of death, 
making us who are in attendance alike afraid to” 


look on you and to look off you, and making 
those below start at the least sound of a creak- 
ing plank in the floor. a 
Stay! Did that eyelid tremble? So the doc- 
tor, breathing low, and closely watching, asks 
himself. “ 
No. 
Did that nostril twitch? 
No. 
This artificial respiration ceasing, do I feel 
any faint flutter under my hand upon the chest? 
No. 
Over and over again No. 
and over again, nevertheless. 
See! A token of life! 
of life! The spark may smoulder and go out, of 
it may glow and expand, but see! 
rough fellows, seeing, shed tears. Neither Ri- 
derhood in this world, nor Riderhood in the oth- 
er, could draw tears from them; but a strivil 
human soul between the two can do it easily. 
He is struggling to come back, Now, he 


ne 


* 


i 


| 


Py) | 


a 
No. But try over’ 


An indubitable token 


The fou r 


'; 
iA 
we 
‘ 


i 
A 
i 


wi 


x OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


almost here, now he is far away again. Now he} hand. 


is struggling harder to get back. And yet—like 
us all, when we swoon—like us all, every day 
of our lives when we wake—he is instinctively 
unwilling to be restored to the consciousness of 
this existence, and would be left dormant, if he 
could. ; 

Bob Gliddery returns with Pleasant Rider- 
hood, who was out when sought for, and hard to 
find. She has a shawl over her head, and her 


first action, when she takes it off weeping, and 


courtesies to Miss Abbey, is to wind her hair 
ee hank 
here.” 7 
*‘f am bound to say, girl, I didn’t know who 
it was,” returns Miss Abbey; ‘but I hope it 
would have been pretty much the same if I had 
known.” 

_ Poor Pleasant, fortified with a sip of brandy, 
is ushered into the first-floor chamber, She 
could not express much sentiment about her fa- 


up. 
you, Miss Abbey, for having father 


funeral oration, but she has a greater tenderness 


for him than he ever had for her, and crying 


bitterly when she sees him stretched unconscious, 
asks the doctor, with clasped hands: ‘Is there 
no hope, Sir? O poor father! Is poor father 
dead ?” 

To which the doctor, on one knee beside the 


~ body, busy and watchful, only rejoins without 


looking round: ‘Nowy, my girl, unless you have 


_the self-command to be perfectly quiet, Ican not 
_ allow you to remain in the room.” — 


Pleasant, consequently, wipes her eyes with 


her back-hair, which is in fresh need ‘of being 


wound up, and having got it out of the way, 


watches with terrified interest all that goes on, 
Her natural woman’s aptitude soon renders her 
able to give a little help. Anticipating the doc- 


tor’s want of this or that, she quietly has it ready, | 
.end of the room, shunning him. 


for him, and so by degrees is intrusted with the 


charge of supporting her father’s head upon her | 


arm. 


It is something so new to Pleasant to see her 
father an object of sympathy and interest, to 
find any one very willing to tolerate his society 
in this world, not to say pressingly and sooth- 


ingly entreating him to belong to it, that it | 


gives her a sensation she never experienced be- 
fore. 
main thus for a long time it would be a respect- 
able change, floats in her mind. Also some 


vague idea that the old evil is drowned out of 


him, and that if he should happily come back to | 


resume his occupation of the empty form that 
lies upon the bed, his spirit will be altered. In 
which state of mind she kisses the stony lips, 
and quite believes that the impassive hand she 
chafes will revive a tender hand, if it revive 
ever. 


Sweet delusion for Pleasant Riderhood. But 


Some hazy idea that if affairs could re-. 


_ther if she were called upon to pronounce his | 


| 


they minister to him with such extraordinary | 


interest, their anxiety is so keen, their vigilance 
18 80 great, their excited joy grows so intense as 


the signs of life strengthen, that how can she | 


Tesist it, poor thing! And now he begins to 


| 
\ 
| 
| 


breathe naturally, and he stirs, and the doctor | 


declares him to have come back from that inex- 
plicable journey where he stopped on the dark 
road, and to be here. ; 

~ Yom Tootle, who is nearest to the doctor when 
®s says this, grasps the doctor fervently by the 


ee 
a | 


= 
Ts" 


| too. 


_to ask a question. 
Tell him. 


Bob Glamour, William Williams, and 
Jonathan of the no surname, all shake hands 
with one another round, and with the doctor. 
Bob GlAmour blows. his nose, and Jona- 
than of the no surname is moved ‘to do like- 
wise, but lacking a pocket-handkerchief aban- 
dons that outlet for his emotion. Pleasant sheds 
tears deserving her own name, and her sweet 
delusion is at its height. 

There is intelligence in his eyes. He wants 
He wonders where he is. 


** Father, you were run down 
and are at Miss Abbey Potterson’s 

He stares at his -daughter, stares all around 
him, closes his eyes, and lies slumbering on her 
arm. 

The short-lived delusion begins to fade. The 
low, bad, unimpressible face is coming up from 
the depths of the river, or what other depths, to 
the surface again. As he grows warm, the doc- 
tor and the four men cool. ‘As his lineaments 

often with life, their faces and their hearts 


on the river, 


9 
° 


‘harden to him., 


‘* He will do now,” says the doctor, washing 
his hands, and looking at the patient with grow- 
ing disfavor. 

‘* Many a better man,” moralizes Tom Tootle 
with a gloomy shake of the head, ‘ain't had his 
luck.” 

‘* It’s to be hoped he’ll make a better use of: 
his life,” says Bob Glamour, “ than I expect he 
Will. 3 
‘*Or than he done afore,” adds William Will- 
jams. 

‘‘But no, not he!” says Jonathan of the no 
surname, clenching the quartette. 

They speak in a low tone because of his 
daughter, but she sees that they have all drawn 
off, and that they stand in a group at the other 
It would be 
too much to suspect them of being sorry that he 
didn’t die when he had done so much toward it, 
but they clearly wish that they had had a better 
subject to bestow their pains on. Intelligence is 
conveyed to Miss Abbey in the bar, who reap- 
pears on the scene, and contemplates from a dis- 
tance, holding whispered discourse with the doc- 
tor. The spark of life was deeply interesting 
while it was in abeyance, but now that it has 


| got established in Mr. Riderhood, there appears 


to be a general desire that circumstances had 
admitted of its being developed in any body else 
rather than that. gentleman. 

‘* However,” says Miss Abbey, cheering them 
up, ‘‘you have done your duty like good and 
true men, and you had better come down and 
take something at the expense of the Porters.” 

This they all do, leaving the daughter watch- 
ing the father. To whom, in their absence, Bob 
Gliddery presents himself, 

‘His gills looks rum; don’t they ?” says Bob, 
after inspecting the patient. 

Pleasant faintly nods. 

‘¢His gills ‘ll look rummer when he wakes; 
won’t they ?”’ says Bob. 

Pleasant hopes not. Why? 

‘‘When he finds himself here, you know,”. 
Bob explains. ‘Cause Miss Abbey forbid him 
the house and ordered him out of it. But what 
you may call the Fates ordered him into it again. 
Which is rumness; ain’t it?” 


199 


200 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


—s C 
FZ, u 

ww 
<A —~_. 


i} 


4 
i ! 


ROGUE RIDERHOOD HIMSELF AGAIN, 


‘‘ He wouldn't have come here of his own ac-|_ He replies gruffly, ‘‘ Nothing to boast on. ’ 
cord,” returns poor Pleasant, with an effort at | Having, in fact, returned to life in an uncom- 
a little pride. | monly sulky state. 

‘*No,” retorts Bob. ‘* Nor he wouldn’t have ‘‘T don’t mean to preach; but I hope,” says 
been let in, 1f he had.” the doctor, gravely shaking his head, ‘* that this 

The short delusion is quite dispelled now. | escape may have a good effect upon you, Rider- 
As plainly as she sees on her arm the old father, | hood.” 
unimproved, Pleasant sees that every body there The patient’s discontented growl of a reply is 
will cut him when he recovers consciousness. | not intelligible; his daughter, however, could 
‘<J'll take him away ever so soon as I can,” | interpret, if she would, that what he says is, he 
thinks Pleasant with a sigh; ‘‘he’s best at | ‘*don’t want no Poll-Parroting.” 
home.” Mr. Riderhood next demands his shirt, and 

Presently they all return, and wait for him to | draws it on over his head (with his daughter’s 
become conscious that they will all be glad to| help) exactly as if he had just had a Fight. | 
get rid of him. Some clothes are got together| ‘ Warn’t it a steamer?” he pauscs to ask her. 


for him to wear, his own being saturated with ‘¢'Yes, father.” . 
water, and his present dress being composed of | ‘I'll have the law on her, bust her! and make — 
blankets. her pay for it.” 4 


Becoming more and more uncomfortable, as He then buttons his linen very moodily, twice 
though the prevalent dislike were finding him|or thrice stopping to examine his arms and 
out somewhere in his sleep and expressing itself | hands, as if to see what punishment he has re- — 
to him, the patient at last opens his eyes wide, | ceived in the Fight. He then doggedly demands 
and is assisted by his daughter to sit up in bed. | his other garments, and slowly gets them on, 

“Well, Riderhood,” says the doctor, ‘ how | with an appearance of great malevolence toward — 
do you feel ?” - | his late opponent and all the spectators. He 


has an impression that his nose is bleeding, and 

several times draws the back of his hand across 
it, and looks for the result, in.a pugilistic man- 
ner, greatly strengthening that incongruous re- 
semblance. 

** Where’s my fur cap?” he asks in a surly 
voice, when he has shufiled his clothes on. 

‘* In the river,” somebody rejoins. 

*“And warn’t there no honest man to pick it 
up? OO’ course there was though, and to eut 
off with it arterwards. You are a rare lot, all 
on you!” 

Thus, Mr. Riderhood: taking from the hands 
of his daughter, with special ill-will, a lent cap, 
and grumbling as he pulls it down over his ears. 
Then, getting on his unsteady legs, leaning heav- 
ily upon her, and growling ‘Hold still, can’t 
you? What! You must be a staggering next, 
must you?” he takes his departure out of the 
ring in which he has had that little turn-up with 
Death. 


CHAPTER IV. 
A HAPPY RETURN OF THE DAY: 


Mr. and Mrs. Wilfer had seen a full quarter 


of a hundred more anniversaries of their wed- 
ding-day than Mr. and Mrs. Lammle had seen 
of theirs, but they still celebrated the occasion 
in the bosom of their family. Not that these 
celebrations ever resulted in any thing particu- 
larly agreeable, or that the family was ever dis- 
appointed by that circumstance on account of 
having looked forward to the return of the au- 
spicious day with sanguine anticipations of en- 
joyment. It was kept morally, rather as a Fast 
than a Feast, enabling Mrs. Wilfer to hold a 


sombre darkling state, which exhibited that im- 


4 


pressive woman in her choicest colors. 

The noble lady’s condition on these delightful 
occasions was one compounded of heroic endur- 
ance and heroic forgiveness. Lurid indications 
of the better marriages she might have made 
shone athwart the awful gloom of her compos- 
ure, and fitfully revealed the cherub as a little 
monster unaccountably favored by Heaven, who 
had possessed himself of a blessing for which 
many of his superiors had sued and contended 
in vain. So firmly had this his position toward 
his treasure become established, that when the 
anniversary arrived, it always found him in an 
apologetic state. It is not impossible that his 
modest penitence may have even gone the length 
of sometimes severely reproving him for that he 
ever took the liberty of making so exalted a 
character his wife. 

As for the children of the union, their experi- 
ence of these festivals had been sufficiently un- 
comfortable to lead them annually to wish, when 
out of their tenderest years, either that Ma had 
married somebody else instead of much-teased 
Pa, or that Pa had married somebody else in- 
stead of Ma. When there came to be but two 
sisters left at home, the daring mind of Bella on 
the next of these occasions scaled the height of 
wondering with droll vexation “‘what on earth 
Pa ever could have seen in Ma, to induce him 
to make such a little fool of himself as to ask her 
to have him.” 

The revolving year now bringing the day round 
in its orderly sequence, Bella arrived in the Bof- 

13 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


201 


fin chariot to assist at the celebration. It was 
the family custom, when the day recurred, to 
sacrifice a pair of fowls on the altar of Hymen ; 
and Bella had sent a note beforehand to inti- 
mate that she would bring the votive offering 
with her. So Bella and the fowls, by the unit- 
ed energies of two horses, two men, four wheels, 
and a plum-pudding carriage dog with as un- 
comfortable a collar on as if he had been George 
the Fourth, were deposited at the door of the 
parental dwelling. They were there received 
by Mrs. Wilfer in person, whose dignity on this, 
as on most special occasions, was heightened by 
a mysterious toothache. 

‘IT shall not require the carriage 
said Bella. ‘I shall walk back.” 

The male domestic of Mrs. Boffin touched his 
hat, and in the act of departure had an awful 
glare bestowed upon him by Mrs. Wilfer, in- 
tended to carry deep into his audacious soul the 
assurance that, whatever his private suspicions 
might be, male domestics in livery were no rari- 
ty there. 

‘* Well, dear Ma,” said Bella, ‘and how do 
you do?” 

‘I am as well, Bella,” replied Mrs. Wilfer, 
‘*as can be expected.” 

‘‘ Dear me, Ma,” said Bella; ‘you talk as if 
one was just born !” 

*“That’s exactly what Ma has been doing,” 
interposed Lavvy, over the maternal shoulder, 
‘fever since we got up this morning. It’s all 
very well to laugh, Bella, but any thing more 
exasperating it is impossible to conceive.” 

Mrs. Wilfer, with a look too full of majesty to 
be accompanied by any words, attended both 
her daughters to the kitchen, where the sacrifice 
was to be prepared. — 

‘Mr, Rokesmith,” said she, resignedly, ‘* has 
been so polite as to place his sitting-room at our 
disposal to-day. You will therefore, Bella, be 
entertained in the humble abode of your par- 
ents, so far in accordance with your present style 
of living, that there will be a drawing-room for 
your reception as well as.a dining-room. Your 
papa invited Mr. Rokesmith to partake of our 
lowly fare. In excusing himself on account of 
a particular engagement he offered the use of 
his apartment.” 

Bella happened to know that he had no en- 
gagement out of his own room at Mr. Boffin’s, 
but she approved of his staying away. ‘*‘We 
should only have put one another out of counte- 
nance,” she thought, ‘‘and we do that quite oft- 
en enough as it is.” 

Yet she had sufficient curiosity about his room 
to run up to it with the least possible delay, and 
make a close inspection of its contents. It was 
tastefully though economically furnished, and 
very neatly arranged. ‘There were shelves and 
stands of books—English, French, and Italian ; 
and in a port-folio on the writing-table there 
were sheets upon sheets of memoranda and cal- 
culations in figures, evidently referring to the 
Boffin property. On that table also, carefully 
backed with canvas, varnished, mounted, and 
rolled like a map, was the placard descriptive 
of the murdered man who had come from afar 
to be her husband, She shrank from this ghost- 
ly surprise, and felt quite frightened as she rolled 
and tied it up again. Peeping about here and 
there she came upon a print, a graceful head of 


at night,” 


202 


a pretty woman, elegantly framed, hanging in 
the corner by the easy-chair. ‘‘Oh, indeed, 
Sir! said Bella, after stopping to ruminate be- 
fore it. ‘*Oh, indeed, Sir! I fancy L can guess 
whom you think that’s like. But Pll tell you 
what it’s much more like—your impudence!” 
Having said which she decamped: not solely 
because she was offended, but because there was 
nothing else to look at. 

**Now, Ma,” said Bella, reappearing in the 
kitchen with some remains of a blush, ‘‘you 
and Lavvy think magnificent me fit for no- 


thing, but I intend to prove the conirary. I 
mean to be Cook to-day.” 
‘* Hold!” rejoined her majestic mother. ‘I 


“an not permit it. Cook, in that dress!” 

‘¢ As for my dress, Ma,” returned Bella, mer- | 
rily searching in a dresser-drawer, ‘I mean.-to 
apron it and towel it all over the front; and as 
to permission, 1 mean to do. without.” | 

** You cook ?”’ said Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘ You, who , 
never cooked when you were at home ?”’ 

‘<Yes, Ma,” returned Bella; ‘‘ that is precise- 
ly the state of the case.” 

She girded herself with a white apron, and 
busily with knots and pins contrived a bib to it, 
coming close and tight under her chin, as if it 
had caught her round the neck to kiss her. | 
Over this bib her dimples looked delightful, | 
and under it her pretty figure not less so. | 
‘Now, Ma,” said Bella, pushing back her hair 
from her temples with both hands, ‘‘ what’s 
first ?” 

“ First,” returned Mrs, Wilfer, solemnly, ‘‘if 
you persist in what I can not but regard as con- 
duct utterly incompatible with the equipage in 
which you arrived—” 46 

(* Which I'do,,Ma.”) % 

‘* First, then, you put the fowls down to the 
fire.” : 

‘¢To—be—sure!” cried Bella; ‘‘and flour 
them, and twirl them round, and there they go !” 
sending them spinning ata greatrate. ‘* What’s 
next, Ma?” 

** Next,” said Mrs. Wilfer with a wave of her 
gloves, expressive of abdication under protest 
from the culinary throne, ‘‘I would recommend 
examination of the bacon in the sauce-pan on 
the fire, and also of the potatoes by the applica- 
tion of a fork. Preparation of the greens will 
further become necessary if you persist in this 
unseemly demeanor.” 

“ As of course I do, Ma.” 

Persisting, Bella gave her attention to one 
thing and forgot the other, and gave her atten- 
tion to the other and forgot the third, and re- 
membering the third was distracted by the fourth, 
and made amends whenever she went wrong by 
giving the unfortunate fowls an extra spin, which | 
made their chance of ever getting cooked ex- 
ceedingly doubtful. But it was pleasant cook- | 
ery too. Meantime Miss Lavinia, oscillating 
between the kitchen and the opposite room, pre- | 
pared the dining-table in the latter chamber. | 
This office she (always doing her household 
spiriting with unwillingness) performed in a 
startling series of whisks and bumps; laying 
the table-cloth as if she were raising the wind, 
putting down the glasses and salt-cellars as if 
she were knocking at the door, and clashing, the” 
knives and forks in a skirmishing manner sug- | 
gestive of hand-to-hand conflict. ; 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ey 


“Took at Ma,” whispered Lavinia to Bella 
when this was done, and they stood over the 
roasting fowls. ‘‘If one was the most dutiful 
child in existence (of course on the whole one 
hopes one is), isn’t she enough to make one 
want to poke her with something wooden, sit- 
ting there bolt upright in a corner?” 

‘Only suppose,” returned Bella, ‘‘ that poor 
Pa was to sit bolt upright in another corner.” 

‘*My dear, he couldn’t do it,” said Lavvy. 
‘¢Pa would loll directly. But indeed I do not 
believe there ever was any human creature who 
could keep so bolt upright as Ma, or put such an 
amount of aggravation into one back! What’s 
the matter, Ma? Ain’t you well, Ma?” 

** Doubtless Iam very well,” returned Mrs. 
Wilfer, turning her eyes upon her youngest born 
with scornful fortitude. ‘*What should be the 
matter with Me?” 

“You don’t scem very brisk, Ma,” retorted 
Lavvy the bold. 

‘* Brisk ?” repeated her parent, ‘* Brisk ? 
Whence the low expression, Lavinia? If Iam 
uncomplaining, if I am silently contented with 
my lot, let that suffice for my family.” 

‘Well, Ma,” returned Lavvy, ‘‘since you 
will force it out of me, I must respectfully take 


_leave to say that vour family are no doubt under 


the greatest obligations to you for having an 
annual toothache on your wedding-day, and 
that it’s very disinterested in you, and an im- 
mense blessing to them. Still, on the whole, it 
is possible to be too boastful even of that boon.” 

‘“*You incarnation of sauciness,” said Mrs. 
Wilfer, ‘‘do you speak like that to me? On 
this day, of all days in the year? Pray do you 
know what would have become of you if I had 
not bestowed my hand upon R. W., your father, 
on this day ?” 


‘*No, Ma,” replied Lavvy, ‘‘I really do not; 


and, with the greatest respect for your abilities 
and information, I very much doubt if you do 
either.” 

Whether or no the sharp vigor of this’ sally 
on a weak point of Mrs. Wilfer’s intrenchments 
might have routed that heroine for the time, is 
rendered uncertain by the arrival of a flag of” 
truce in the person of Mr. George Sampson: 
bidden to the feast as a friend of the family, 


| whose affections were now understood to be in’ 


course of transferrence from Bella to Lavinia, 
and whom Lavinia kept—possibly in remem- 
brance of his bad taste in having overlooked her 
in the first instance—under a course of stinging 
discipline. 
“‘T congratulate you, Mrs. Wilfer,” said Mr. 


George Sampson, who had meditated this neat 


address while coming along, ‘‘on the day.” 
Mrs. Wilfer thanked him with a magnanimous 
sigh, and again became an unresisting prey to 
that inscrutable toothache, 

“I am surprised,” said Mr, Sampson, feebly, 
‘*that Miss Bella condescends to cook.” 

Here Miss Lavinia descended on the ill-starred 
young gentleman with a crushing supposition 
that at all events it was no business of his. This 
disposed of Mr. Sampson in a melancholy retire- 
ment of spirit, until the cherub arrived, whose 
amazement at the lovely woman’s occupation 
was great. 

However, she persisted in dishing the dinner 
as well as cooking it, and then sat down, bibless 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


and apronless, to partake of it as an illustrious 
guest: Mrs, Wilfer first responding to her hus- 
band’s cheerful ‘‘ For what we are about to re- 
ceive—” with a sepulchral Amen, calculated to 
cast a damp upon the stoutest appetite. 

** But what,” said Bella, as she watched the 
carving of the fowls, ** makes them pink inside, 
I wonder, Pa! Is it the breed ?” 

“No, I don’t think it’s the breed, my dear,” 
returned Pa. ‘‘I rather think it is because they 
are ot done.” 

‘They ought to be,” said Bella. 

* Yes, Lam aware they ought to be, my dear,” 
rejoined her father, ‘ but they—ain’t.” 

So the gridiron was put in requisition, and 
the good-tempered cherub, who was often as un- 
cherubically employed in his own family:as if 
he had been in the employment of some of the 
Old Masters, undertook to grill the fowls. In- 
deed, except in respect of staring about him (a 
branch of the public service to which the picto- 
rial cherub is much addicted), this domestic 
cherub discharged as many odd functions as his 
prototype ; with the difference, say, that he per- 
formed with a blacking-brush on the family’s 
boots, instead of performing on enormous wind 
instruments and double-basses, and that he con- 
ducted himself with cheerful alacrity to much 
useful purpos», instead of foreshortening himself 
in the air with the vagnest intentions. 

Bella helped him with his supplemental cook- 
ery, and made lim very happy, but put him in 
mortal terror too by asking him, when they sat 
down at table azain, how he supposed they couked 
fowls at the Greenwich dinners, and whether he 
believed they really were such pleasant dinners 
as people said? His secret winks and nods of 
remonstrance, in reply, made the mischievous 
Bella laugh until she choked, and then Lavinia 
was obliged to slap her on the back, and then 
she laughed the more. 

But her mother was a fine corrective at the 
other end of the table; to whom her father, in 
the innocence of his good-fellowship, at intervals 
appealed with: ‘‘ My dear, I am afraid you are 
not enjoying yourself?” 

“Why so, R. W.?” she would sonorously re- 
ply. 

** Because, my dear, you seem a little out of 
sorts.” 

**Not at all,” would be the rejoinder, in ex- 
actly the same tone. 

“* Would you take a merry-thought, my dear ?” 

“Thank you. Iwill take whatever you please, 
re ve 

‘* Well, but my dear, do you like it?” 

**T like it as well as I like any thing, R. W.” 
The stately woman would then, with a meritori- 
ous appearance of devoting herself to the general 
good, pursue her dinner as if she were feeding 
somebody else on high public grounds. 

Bella had brought dessert and two bottles of 
wine, thus shedding unprecedented splendor on 
the occasion. Mrs. Wilfer did the honors of the 
first glass by proclaiming :>‘* R. W., I drink to 
you.” 

**Thank you, my dear. And I to you. 

**Pa and Ma!” said Bella, 

‘*Permit me,” Mrs. Wilfer interposed, with 
outstretched glove. ‘‘No. Ithink not. I drank 
to your papa. If, however, you insist on includ- 
ing me, I can in gratitude offer no objection.” 


203 


nf Why, Lor, Ma,” interposed Lavvy the bold, 
‘isn’t it the day that made you and Pa one and 
the same? I have no patience!” _ 
** By whatever other circumstance the day may 
be marked, it is not the day, Lavinia, on which 
I will allow a child of mine to pounce upon 


me. I beg nay, command !—that you will not. 
pounce. R. W., it is appropriate to recall that 


it is for you to command and for me to obey. It 
is your house, and you are master’ at your own 
table. Both our healths!” Drinking the toast 
with tremendous stiffness. 

“‘T really am a little afraid, my dear,” hinted 
the cherub meekly, ‘that you are not enjoying 
yourself?” 

“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. 
**quite so. Why should I not?” 

‘I thought, my dear, that perhaps your face 
might—” 

‘* My face might be a martyrdom, but what 
would that import, or who should know it, if I 
smiled ?” 

And she did smile; manifestly freezing the 
blood of Mr. George Sampson by so doing. For 
that young gentleman, catching her smiling eye, 
was so very much appalled by its expression as 
to cast about in his thoughts concerning what he 
had done to bring it down upon himself. 

“*The mind naturally falls,” said Mrs. Wilfer, 
‘shall I say into a reverie, or shall I say into a 
retrospect? on a day like this.” 

Lavvy, sitting with defiantly folded arms, re- 
plied (but not audibly), ‘¢ For goodness’ sake say 
whichever of the two you like best, Ma, and get 
it’ over.” 

“The mind,” pursued Mrs, Wilfer in an ora- 
torical manner, “naturally reverts to Papa and 
Mamma—I here allude to my parents—at a 
period before the earliest dawn of this day. I 
was considered tall; perhaps I was. Papa and 
Mamma were unquestionably tall. JI have rare- 
ly seen a finer woman than my mother; never 
than my father.” 

The irrepressible Lavvy remark:d aloud, 
‘Whatever grandpapa was, he wasn’t a female.” 

‘*Your grandpapa,”’ retorted Mrs. Wilfer, with 
an awful look, and in an awful tone, ‘‘ was what 
I describe him to have been, and would have 
struck any of his grandchildren to the earth who 
presumed to question it. It was one of mam- 
ma’s cherished hopes that I should become unit- 
ed to a tall member of society. It may have 
been a weakness, but: if so, it was equally the 
weakness, I believe, of King Frederick of Prus- 
sia.” ‘These remarks being offered to Mr. George 
Sampson, who had not the courage to come out 
for single combat, but lurked with his chest un- 
der the table and his eves cast down, Mrs. Wii- 
fer proceeded, in a voice of increasing sternness 
and impressiveness, until she should foree that 
skulker to give himself up. ‘* Mamma would 
appear to have had an indefinable foreboding 
of what afterward happened, for she would fre- 
quently urge upon me, ‘ Not a little man. Prom- 
ise me, my child, not a little man. Never, nev- 
er, never marry a little man!’ Papa also would 
remark to me (he possessed extraordinary hu- 
mor), ‘that a family of whales must not ally 
themselves with sprats.’ His company was ea- 


é 
Wilfer, 


‘gerly sought, as may be supposed, by the wits of 


the day, and our house was their continual re- 
sort. I have known as many as three copper- 


204 


plate engravers exchanging the most exquisite 
sallies and retorts there at one time.” (Here 
Mr. Sampson delivered himself captive, and said, 
with an uneasy movement on his chair, that 
three was a large number, and it must have been 
highly entertaining.) ‘‘ Among the most prom- 
inent members of that distinguished circle was 
a gentleman measuring six feet four in height. 
He was not an engraver.” (Here Mr. Sampson 
said, with no reason whatever, Of course not.) 
“‘This gentleman was so obliging as to honor 
me with attentions which I could not fail to un- 
derstand.” (Here Mr. Sampson murmured that 
when it came to that you could always tell.) 
‘“] immediately announced to both my parents 
that those attentions were misplaced, and that I 
could not favor his suit. They inquired was he 
too tall? I replied it was not the stature, but 
the intellect was too lofty. At our house, I said, 
the tone was too brilliant, the pressure was too 
high, to be maintained by me, a mere wornan, 
in everyday domestic life. I well remember 
mamma’s clasping her hands, and exclaiming, 
‘This will end in a little man!’” (Here Mr. 
Sampson glanced at his host and shook his head 
with despondency.) ‘‘She afterward went so far 
as to predict that it would end in a little man 
whose mind would be below the average, but 
that was in what I may denominate a paroxysm 
of maternal disappointment. Within a month,” 
said Mrs. Wilfer, deepening her voice, as if she 
were relating a terrible ghost story, ‘“‘ within a 
month I first saw R. W., my husband. Within 
a year I married him. It is natural for the 
mind to recall these dark coincidences on the 
present day.” 

Mr. Sampson at length released from the cus- 
tody of Mrs. Wilfer’s eve, now drew a long 
breath, and made the original and striking re- 
mark that there was no accounting for these sort 
of presentiments. R.W. scratched his head and 
looked apologetically all round the table until he 
came to his wife, when, observing her, as it were, 
shrouded in a more sombre weight than before, 
he once more hinted, ‘‘ My dear, I am really 
afraid you are not altogether enjoying yourself?” 
To which she once more replied, “‘ On the con- 
trary, ds. vy." (tite so.” 

The wretched Mr. Sampson’s position at this 
agreeable entertainment was truly pitiable. For 
not only was he exposed defenseless to the ha- 
rangues of Mrs. Wilfer, but he received the ut- 
most contumely at the hands of Lavinia; who, 
partly to show Bella that she (Lavinia) could do 
what she liked with him, and partly to pay him 
off for still obviously admiring Bella’s beauty, 
led him the life of a dog. Jlluminated on the 
one hand by the stately graces of Mrs. Wilfer’s 
oratory, and shadowed on the other by the checks 
and frowns of the young lady to whom he had 
devoted himself in his destitution, the sufferings 
of this young gentleman were distressing to wit- 
ness. If his mind for the moment reeled under 
them, it may be urged, in extenuation of its 
weakness, that it was constitutionally a knock- 
knee’d mind, and never very strong upon its legs. 
- The rosy hours were thus beguiled until it was 
time for Bella to have Pa’s escort back. The 
dimples duly tied up in the-bonnet-strings, and 


the leave-taking done, they got out into the air, 


and the cherub drew along breath as if he found 
it refreshing. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘* Well, dear Pa,” said Bella, ‘‘the anniversa- 
ry may be considered over.” 

‘* Yes, my dear,” returned the cherub, ‘‘ there’s 
another of ’em gone.” 

Bella drew his arm closer through hers as 
they walked along, and gave it a number of 
consolatory pats. ‘*Thank you, my dear,”*he 
said, as if she had spoken; ‘¢I am all right, my 
dear. Well, and how do you get on, Bella?” 

**T am not at all improved, Pa.” 

** Ain't you really, though ?” 

‘*No, Pa. On the contrary, I am worse.” 

** Lor!” said the cherub. 

*¢T am worse, Pa. I make so many calcula- 
tions how much a year I must have when I mar- 
ry, and what is the least I can manage to do 
with, that J am beginning tos get wrinkles over 
my nose. Did you notice any wrinkles over my 
nose this evening, Pa?” 

Pa laughing at this, Bella gave him two or 
three shakes. re 

“You won't laugh, Sir, when vou see your 
lovely woman turning haggard. You had bet- 
ter be prepared in time, I can tell you. I shall 
not be able to keep my greediness for money out 
of my eyes long, and when you see it there you'll 
be sorry, and serve you right for not being warn- 
ed in time. Now, Sir, we entered into a bond 
of confidence. Have you any thing to impart?” 

‘*T thought it was you who was to impart, my 
love.” 

**Oh! did you indeed, Sir? Then why didn’t 
you ask me the moment we came out? The 
confidences of lovely women are not to be slight- 
ed. However, I forgive you this once ;.and look 
here, Pa, that’s’—Bella laid the little forefinger 
of her right glove on her lip, and then Jaid it on 
her father’s lip—‘‘ that’s a kiss for you. And 
now I am going seriously to tell you—let me see 
how many—four secrets. Mind! Serious, grave, 
weighty secrets. Strictly between ourselves,” 

‘¢ Number one, my dear?” said her father, set- 
tling her arm comfortably and confidentially. 

‘*Number one,” said Bella, ‘‘ will electrify 
you, Pa 
confused here in spite of her merry way of be- 
ginning—‘* has made an offer to me?” 

Pa looked in her face, and looked at the 
ground, and looked in her face again, and de- 
clared he could never guess. 

“Mr, Rokesmith.” 

“You don’t tell me so, my dear!” 

‘* Mis—ter Roke—smith, Pa,” said Bella, sep- 
arating the syllables for emphasis. ‘ What do 
you say to that ?” 

Pa answered quietly with the counter-ques- 
tion, ‘*‘ What did you say to that, my love 2?” 

‘‘T said No,” returned Bella, sharply. ‘Of 
course.” 

(Pes: 
ting. 

‘And I told him why I thought it a betrayal 
of trust on his part, and an affront to me,’’ said 
Bella. 

‘““Yes. Tobe sure. Jam astonished indeed. 
J wonder he committed himself without seeing 
more of his way first. Now I think of it, I sus- 
pect he always has admired you though, my 
dear.” 

‘* A hackney coachman may admire me,” re- 
marked Bella, with a touch of her mother’s loft- 
iness. | 


Of course,” said her father, medita- 


oh Se een 1s oo 


Who do you think has’—she was . 


eed 


“It’s highly probable, my love. Number two, 
my dear?” 

“Number two, Pa, is much to the same pur- 
pose, though mot so preposterous. Mr. Light- 
wood would propose to me; if I would let him.” 

‘Then [ understand, my dear, that you don’t 
intend to let him?” 

Bella again saying, with her former emphasis, 
**Why, of course not!” her father felt himself 
bound to echo, ‘ Of course not.” 

**T don’t care for him,” said Bella. 

*“That’s enough,” her father interposed. 

“No, Pa, it’s not enough,” rejoined Bella, 
giving him another shake or two. ‘+ Haven’t I 
told you what a mercenary little wretch I am? 
It only becomes enough when he has no money, 
and no clients, and no expectations, and no any 
thing but debtsy’ 

‘*Hah!” said the cherub, a little depressed. 
**Number three, my dear ?” 

‘* Number three, Pa, is a better thing. A gen- 
erous thing, a noble thing, a delightful thing. 


Mrs. Boffin has herself told me, as a secret, with | 


her own kind lips—aid truer lips never opened 


or closed in this life, I am sure—that they wish | 


to see me well married, and that when I marry 
with their consent they will portion me most 
handsomely.” Here the grateful girl burst out 
erying very heartily. 


** Don’t ery, my darling,” said her father, with | 


his hand to his eyes; *‘it’s excusable in me to 


be a little overcome when I find that my dear, 
favorite child is, after al} disappointments, to be | 


so provided for and so raised in the world; buat 
don’t you ery, don’t you cry. I am very thank- 
ful. I congratulate you with all my heart, my 
dear.” The good soft little fellow, drying his 
eyes here, Bella put her arms round his neck 
and tenderly kissed him on the high road, pas- 
sionately telling him he was the best of fathers 
and the best of friends, and that on her wedding- 
morning she would go down on her knees to 
him and beg his pardon for having ever teased 
him or seemed insensible to the worth of such a 
patient, sympathetic, x. aial, fresh young heart. 
At every one of her adjectives she redoubled her 
Kisses, and finally kissed his hat off, and then 
laughed immoderately when the wind took it 
and he ran after it. 

When he had recovered his hat and his breath, 
and they were going on again once more, said 
her father then: ‘* Number four, my dear ?” 

Bella’s countenance fell in the midst of her 
mirth. ‘S After all, perhaps I had better put off 
number four, Pa. Let me try once more, if for 
never so short a time, to hope that it may not 
really be so.” 

The change in her strengthened the cherub’s 
interest in number four, and he said, quietly : 
‘*May not be so, my dear? May not be how, 
my dear?” 

Bella looked at him pensively, and shook her 


head. 


‘And yet I know right well it is so, Pa. I 
know it only too well.” 

“My love,” returned her father, ‘‘ you make 
mv quite uncomfortable. Have you said No to 
any body else, my dear?” 

ANOS Fr a,!s 

**Yes to any body?” he suggested, lifting up 
his eyebrows. 

Noy Pa,” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


205 


‘Is there any body else who would take his 
chance between Yes and No, if you would let 
him, my dear?” 

‘* Not that I know of, Pa.” ; 

‘*'There can’t be somebody who won't take his 
chance when you want him to ?” said the cherub, 
as a last resource. 

‘‘ Why, of course not, Pa,” said Beila, giving 
him another shake or two. 

‘*No, of course not,” he assented. ** Bella, 
my dear, Iam afraid I must either have no sleep 
to-night, or I must press for number four.” 

‘*Qh, Pa, there is no good in number four! 
T am so sorry for it, Iam so unwilling to believe 
it, I have tried so earnestly not to sce it, that it 
is very hard to tell, even to you. But Mr. Bof- 
‘fin is being spoiled by prosperity, and is chang- 
ing every day.” 

‘* My dear Bella, I hope and trust not.” 

‘“*f have hoped and trusted not too, Pa; but 
every day he changes for the worse, and for the 
worse, Not to me—he is always much the same, 
to me—but to others about him. Before my 
eyes he grows suspicious, capricious, hard, ty- 
rannical, unjust. If ever a good man were ruin- 
ed by good fortune, it is my benefactor. And 
yet, Pa, think how terrible the fascination of 
money is! I see this, and hate this, and dread 
this, and don’t know but that money might make 
a much worse-change in me. And yet [ have 
money always in my thoughts and my desires ; 
and the whole life I place before myself is money, 
money, money, and what money can make of 


Bia, y 
{ life!” 


pe Se See 


CHAPTER V. 


THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS INTO BAD COM- 

PANY. 

Were Bella Wilfer’s bright and ready little 
wits at fault, or was the Golden Dustman pass- 
ing through the furnace of proof and coming out 
dross? Ill news travels fast. We shall know full 
| soon. 

On that very night of her return from the Hap- 
py Return, something chanced which Bella close- 
ly followed with her eyes and ears. There was 
an apartment at the side of the Boffin mansion, 
' known as Mr. Boffin’s room. Far less grand than 
; the rest of the house, it was far more comforta- 
| ble, being pervaded by a certain air of home- 
ly snugness, which upholstering despotism had 
| banished to that spot when it inexorably set its 
'face against Mr. Boffin’s appeals for mercy in 
behalf of any other chamber. Thus, although a 
room of modest situation—for its windows gave 
on Silas Wegg’s old corner—and of no preten- 
| sions to velvet, satin, or gilding, it had got it- 
self established in a domestic position analogous 
to that of an easy dressing-gown or pair of slip- 
| pers; and whenever the family wanted to enjoy 
a particularly pleasant fireside evening, they en- 
joyed it, as an institution that must be, in Mr. 
Boffin’s room. is te 

Mr. and Mrs. Boffin were reported sitting in 
this room when Bella got back. Entering it, 
she found the Secretary there too; In official at- 
tendance it would appear, for he was standing 
with some papers in his hand by a table with 
shaded candles on it, at which Mr. Boftin was 
seated thrown back in his easy-chair. | 


206 


**You are busy, Sir,” 
at the door. 

‘* Not at all, my dear, not at all. You're one 
of ourselves. We never make company of you. 
Come in, come in, Here’s the old lady in her 
usual place.” 
| Mrs. Boffin adding her nod and smile of wel- 
come to Mr. Boffin’s words, Bella took her book 
to a chair in the fireside corner, by Mrs. Boffin’s 
work-table. Mr. Boffin’s station was on the op- 
posite side. 

‘¢Now, Rokesmith,” said the Golden Dust- 

man, so sharply rapping the table to bespeak his 
attention as Bella turned the leaves of her book 
that she started; ‘* where were we ?” 

*¢You were saying,. Sir,” returned the Secre- 
tary, with an air of some reluctance and a glance 
toward those others who were present, ‘that 
you considered the time had come for fixing my 
salary.” 

** Don’t be above calling it wages, man,” said 
Mr. Boffin, testily. ‘‘ What the deuce! I never 
talked of my salary when I was in service.” 

‘*My wages,” said the Secretary, correcting 
himself, 

_“ Rokesmith, you are not proud, I hope?” ob- 
served Mr. Bois, eying him askance..: 

**T hope not, Sir.” 

“ Becanse I never was, when I was poor,” 
said Mr Boffin. ‘‘ Poverty and pride don’t go 
at all well together. Mind that. How can they 
go well together? Why it stands to reason. A 
man, being poor, has nothing to be proud of. 
It’s nonsense.” 

With a slight inclination of his head, and a 
look of some surprise, the Secretary seemed to 
assent by forming the syllables of the word ‘* non- 
sense” on his lips. 

‘Now, concerning these same wages,” said 
Mr. Boffin. ‘‘Sit down.” 

» The Secretary sat down. 

‘Why didn’t you sit down before?” asked 
Mr. Boffin, distrustfully. ‘I hope that wasn’t 
pride ? But about these wages. Now, I've gone 
into the matter, and I say two hundred a year, 
What do you think of it? Do you think it’s 
enough ? 

‘“Phank you. It is a fair proposal.” 

**{ don’t say, you know,” Mr. Boflin stipulated, 
**but what it may be more than enough. And 
T'll tell you why, Rokesmith. A man of proper- 
ty, like me, is bound to consider the market- 
price. At first I didn’t evter into that as much 
as I might have done; but I’ve got acquainted 
with other men of pr uperty since, and I’ve got ac- 
quainted with the duties of property. I mustn’t 
go putting the market-price up because money 
may happen not to be an object with me. A 

sheep 1 is worth so much in the market, and I ought 
to give it and no more. A secretary is worth so 
much in the market, and I ought to give it and 
no more. However, I don’t mind stretching a 
point with you.’ 

‘Mr Boffin, you are very good,” replied the 
Secretary, with an effort, 

sc'Thén we put the figure,” said Mr, Boffin, 
‘at two hundred a year. Then the figure’s dis- 
posed of. Now, there must be no misunderstand. 
ing regarding what I buy for two hundred a 
year. If I pay for a sheep, I buy it out and out. 
Similarly, if I pay for a secretary, I buy him out 
and out.” 


said Bella, hesitating 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. . ; 


**In other words, you purchase my whole 


time ?”’ 


‘““Certainly Ido. Look here,’’ said Mr. Boffin, 


**it ain’t that I want to occupy your whole time; 
you can take up a book for a minute or two 
when you’ve nothing better to do, though I think 
you'll a’most always find something useful to 
do. But I want to keep you in attendance. It’s 
convenient to have you at all times ready on the 
premises. Therefore, betwixt your breakfast and 
your supper—on the premises I expect to find 
you.” 

The Secretary bowed. 

‘¢In by-gone days, when I was in service my- 
self,” said Mr. Boffin, **I couldn’t go cutting 
about at my will and pleasure, and you won’t 
expect to go cutting about at your will and pleas- 
ure. You’ve rather got into a habit of that, 
lately; but perhaps it was for w ant, of a right 
specification betwixt us. Now, let"there be a 
right specification betwixt us, and let it be this, 
If you want leave, ask for it.” 


Again the Secretary bowed. His manner wag 


uneasy and astonished, and showed a sense of 
humiliation. 
‘“V’ll have a bell,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘hung 


from this room to yours, and when I want you 
Vl touch it. I don’t call to mind that I have 
any thing more to say at the present moment.” 

The Seeretary rose, gathered up his papers, 
and withdrew. Bella’s eyes followed him to the 
door, lighted on Mr. Boffin complacently throwr 
back in his easy-chair, and drooped over her 
book. 

Ks haye let that chap, that young man of 
mine,” said Mr. Boffin, taking a trot up and 
down the room, ‘‘ yet above his work. It won't 
do. I must have him down a peg. A man of 
property owes a duty to other men of pr operty, 
and must look sharp after his inferiors.” 

Bella felt that Mrs. Boffin was not comforta- 
ble, and that the eyes of that good creature 
sought to discover from her face what attention 
she had given to this discourse, and what impres- 
sion it had made upon her. For which reason 
Bella’s eves drooped more engrossedly over her 
book, and she turned the page with an air of 
profound absorption in it. 

‘‘ Noddy,” said Mrs. Boffin, after thoughtfully 
pausing in her work. 

‘¢ My dear,” returned the Golden Dustman, 
stopping short in his trot. 

‘*Excuse my putting it to you, Noddy, but 
now really! Haven't you been a little strict 
with Mr. Rokesmith to-night? Haven't vou 
been a little—just a little littlk—not quite like 
your old self?” 

‘Why, old woman, I hope so,” returned Mr. 
Boffin, cheerfully, if not boastfully, 

Ss Hope so, deary ?” 

“Our old selves wouldn't do here, old lady. 
Haven’t you found that out yet? Our old selves 
would be fit for nothing here but to be robhed 
and imposed upon. Our old selves weren’t peo- 
ple of for tune ; our new selves are; it’s a great 
difference.” 

‘¢Ah!” said Mrs. Boffin, pausing in her work 
again, softly to draw a long breath and to look 
at the fire. ‘‘ A great difference.” 

‘* And we must be up to the difference,” pur- 
sued her husband; ‘‘we must be equal to the 
change; that’s what we must be. We’ve got to 


S niin 


hold our own now, against every body (for every 
body’s hand is stretched out to be dipped into 
our pockets), and we have got to recollect that 
money makes money, as well as makes every 
thing else.” 

‘¢Mentioning recollecting,” said Mrs. Boffin, 
with her work abandoned, her eyes upon the fire, 
and her chin upon her hand, ‘‘do you recollect, 


Noddy, how you said to Mr. Rokesmith when he | 


first came to see us at the Bower, and you en- 
gaged him—how you said to him that if it had 
pleased Heaven to send John Harmon to his for- 
tune safe, we could have been content with the 
one Mound which was our legacy, and should 
never have wanted the rest ?” 

‘* Ay, I remember, old lady. But we hadn’t 
tried what it was to have the rest then. Our 
new shoes had come home, but we hadn’t put 
’em on. We're wearing ’em now, we’re wear- 
ing ’em, and must step out accordingly.” 

Mrs. Boffin took up her work again, and plied 
her needle in silence. 

“* As to Rokesmith, that voung man of mine,” 
said Mr.. Boffin, dropping his voice and glanc- 
ing toward the door with an apprehension of 
being overheard by some eavesilropper there, 
‘*it’s the same with him as with the footmen. I 
have found out that you must either scrunch 
them, or let them scrunch you. If you ain’t 
imperious with ’em, they won’t believe in your 
being any better than themselves, if as good, | 
after the stories (lies mostly) that they have 
heard of vour beginnings. ‘There’s nothing be- 
twixt stiffening yourself up, and throwing your- 
self away; take my word for that, old lady.” 

Bella ventured for a moment to look stealthi- 
ly toward him under her eyelashes, and she saw 
a dark cloud of suspicion, covetousness, and con- 
ceit overshadowing the once open face. 

‘* Hows’ever,”’ said he, ‘*‘ this isn’t entertaining 
to Miss Bella. Is it, Bella?” 

A deceiving Bella she was, to look at him with 
that pensively abstracted air, as if her mind were 
full of her book, and she had not heard a single 
word! 

‘“*Hah! Better employed than to attend to 
it,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘That’s right, that’s right. 
Especially as you have no call to be told how to 
value yourself, my dear.” 

Coloring a little under this compliment, Bella 
returned, ‘‘I hope, Sir, you don’t think me 
vain ?” 

‘*Not a bit, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ But 
I think it’s very creditable in you, at your age, 
to be so well up with the pace of the world, and 
to know what to go in for.. You are right. Go 
in for money, my love. Money’s the article. 
You'll make money of your good looks, and of 
the money Mrs. Boffin and me will have the 
pleasure of settling upon you, and you'll live | 
and die rich. That’s the state to live and die 
in!” said Mr. Boffin, in an unctuous manner. 
#6 R—r—rich !” 

There was an expression of distress in Mrs. 
Boffin’s face, as, after watching her husband’s, | 
she turned to their adopted girl, and said: 
**Don’t mind him, Bella, my dear.” 

“Kh?” cried Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ What! 
mind him ?” 


Not 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


because he is the best of men. 


“‘T don’t mean that,” said Mrs. Boffin, with 
a worried look, ‘* but I mean, don’t believe him 
to be any thing but good and generous, Bella, 


207 


No, I must say 
that much, Noddy. You are always the best of 
men.” ; 

_ She made the declaration as if he were object- 
Ing to it; which assuredly he was not in any way. 

‘* And as to you, my dear Bella,” said Mrs, 
Boffin, still with that distressed expression, ‘he 
is so much attached to you, whatever he says, 
that your own father has not a truer interest in 
you and can hardly like you better than he does,” 

** Says too!” cried Mr. Boffin. ‘ Whatever 
he says!) Why, I say so, openly. Give me a 
kiss, my dear child, in saying Good-Night, and 
let me confirm what my old lady tells you. I 
am very fond of you, my dear, and I am entire- 
ly of your mind, and you and I will take care 
that you shall be rich. These good looks of 
yours (which you have some right to be vain of, 
my dear, though you are not, you know) are 
worth money, and you shall make money of 
‘em. The money you will have will be worth 
money, and you shall make money of that too. 
There’s a golden ball at your feet. Good-night, 
my dear.” 

Somehow, Bella was not so well pleased with 
this assurance and this prospect as she might, 
have been. Somehow, when sh® put her arms 
round Mrs. Boffin’s neck and said Good-Night, 
she derived a sense of unworthiness from the still 


‘anxious face of that good woman, and her ob- 


vious wish to excuse her husband. ‘* Why, 
what need to excuse him ?” thought Bella, sit- 
ting down in her own room. ‘‘ What he said 
was very sensible, I am sure, and very true, I 
am sure. It is only what I often say to myself. 
Don’t I like it then? No, I don't like it, and, 
though he is my liberal bencfactor, I disparage 
him for it. Then pray,” said Bella, sternly 
putting the question to herself in the looking- 


glass as usual, ‘‘what do you mean by this, you 
inconsistent little Beast ?” 


The looking-glass preserving a discreet minis- 


_ terial silence when thus called upon for explana- 


tion, Bella went to bed with a weariness upon 
her spirit which was more than the weariness of 
want of sleep. And again in the morning she 


i looked for the cloud, and for the deepening of 
the cloud, upon the Golden Dustman’s face. 


She had begun by this time to be his frequent 
companion in his morning strolls about the 
streets, and it was at this time that he made her 
a party to his engaging in a curious pursuit. 
Having been hard at work in one dull inclosure 
all his life, he had a child’s delight in looking 
at shops. It had been one of the first novelties 
and pleasures of his freedom, and was equally 
the delight of his wife. For many years their 
only walks in London had been taken on Sun- 
days when the shops were shut ; and when every 
day in the week became their holiday they de- 
rived an enjoyment from the variety and fancy 
and beauty of the display in the windows, which 
seemed incapable of exhaustion. As if the prin- 
cipal streets were a great Theatre and the play 
were childishly new to them, Mr. and Mrs. Bof- 
fin, from the beginning of Bella's intimacy in 
their house, had been constantly in the front 
row, charmed with all they saw and applauding 
vigorously. But now, Mr. Boffin’s interest be- 
gan to centre in book-shops; and more than 
that —for that of itself wonld not have been 
much—in one exceptional kind of book. 


208 . 


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OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, ) 


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BIBLOMANIA OF THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN. 


‘*Look in here, my dear,” Mr. Boffin would 
say, checking Bella’s arm at a bookseller’s win- 
dow; ‘‘you can read at sight, and your eyes 
are as sharp as they’re bright. Now, look well 
about you, my dear, and tell me if you see any 
book about a Miser.” 

If Bella saw such a book Mr. Boffin would 
instantly dart in and buy it. And still, as if 
they had not found it, they would seek out an- 
other book-shop, and Mr. Boffin would say, 
*€ Now, look well all round, my dear, for a Life 
of a Miser, or any book of that sort ; any Lives 
of odd characters who may hayec been Misers.” 

_ Bella, thus directed, would examine the win- 
dow with the greatest attention. while Mr. Bof- 
fin would examine her face. ‘The moment she 


pointed out any book as being entitled Lives of 
eccentric personages, Anecdotes of strange char- 
acters, Records of remarkable individuals, or 
any thing to that purpose, Mr. Boffin'’s counte- 
nance would light up, and he would instantly 
dart in and buy it. Size, price, quality, were 
of no account. Any book that seemed to prom- 
ise a chance of miserly biography Mr. Boffin 
purchased without a moment’s delay and carried 
home. Happening to be informed by a book- 
seller that a portion of the Annual Register was 
devoted to ‘‘Characters,”’ Mr. Boffin at once 
bought a whole set of that ingenious compila- 
tion, and began to carry it home piecemeal, 


confiding a volume to Bella, and bearing three © _ 
himsclf. ‘The completion of this labor occupied am 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


them about a fortnight. When the task was 
\ done, Mr. Boffiv, with his appetite for Misers 


whetted instead of satiated, began to look out; 
| captivated by Alfred. 


again. 

“It very soon became unnecessary to tell Bella 
what to look for, and an understanding was es- 
tablished between her and Mr. Boffin that she 
was always to look for Lives of Misers. 


together, pursuing this stngular research. Mi- 
serly literature not being abundant, the propor- 
tion of failures to successes may have been as a 
hundred to one; still Mr. Boftin, never wearied, 
remained as avaricious for misers as he had 
been at the first onset. It was curious that Bella 
never saw the books about the house, nor did 
she ever hear from Mr. Boffin one word of ref- 
erence to their contents. He seemed to save 
wp his Misers as they had saved up their money. 
As they had been greedy for it, and secret about 
it, and had hidden it, so he was greedy for them, 
and secret about them, and hid them. But be- 
yond all doubt it was to be noticed, and was by 
Bella very clearly noticed, that, as he pursued 
the acquisition of thos: dismal records with the 
ardor of Don Quixote for his books of chivalry, 
he began to spend his money with a more spar- 
ing hand. And often when he came out.of a 
shop with some new account of one of those 
wretched lunatics, she would almost shrink from 
the sly dry chuckle with which he would take 
her arm again and trot away. It did not ap- 
pear that Mrs. Boffin knew of this taste. He 
made no allusion to it, except in the morning 
walks when he and Bella were always alone; 
and Bella, partly under the impression that he 
took her into his confidence by implication, and 
partly in remembrance of Mrs. Boffin’s anxious 
face that night, held the same reserve. 

While these occurrences were in progress, Mrs. 
Lammle made the discovery that Bella had a 
fascinating influence over her. The Lammles, 
originally ~presented by the dear Veneerings, 
visited the Boffins on all grand occasions, and 
Mrs. Lammle had not previously found this out ; 
but now the knowledge came upon her all at 
once. It was a most extraordinary thing (she 
said to Mrs. Boffin): she was foolishly suscep- 
tible of the power of beauty, but it wasn’t alto- 
gether that; she never had been able to resist a 
natural grace of manner, but it wasn’t altogeth- 
er that; it was more than that, and there was 
no name for the indescribable extent and degree 
to which she was captivated by this charming girl. 

This charming girl having the words repeated 
to her by Mrs. Boffin (who was proud of her be- 
ing admired, and would have done any thing to 
give her pleasure), naturally recognized in Mrs. 
Lammle a woman of penetration and taste. Re- 
sponding to the sentiments, by being very gra- 
cious to Mrs. Lammle, she gave that lady the 
means of so improving her opportunity, as that 
the captivation became reciprocal, though al- 
ways Wearing an appearance of greater sobriety 
on Bella’s part than on the enthusiastic Sophro- 
nias. Howbeit, they were so much together 
that, for a time, the Boffin chariot held Mrs. 
Lammile oftener than Mrs. Boffin: a preference 
of which the latter worthy soul was not in the 
Teast joalous, placidly remarking, ‘* Mrs. Lammle 
is a younger companion for her than I am, and 
Lor! she’s more fashionable.” 


Morn- } 
ing after morning they roamed about the town: 


2c9 
y But between Bella Wilfer and Georgiana Pod- 


‘Snap there was this one difference, among many 


others, that Bella was in no danger of being 
She distrusted and dis- 
liked him. Indeed, her perception was so quick, 
and her observation so sharp, that after all she 
mistrusted his wife too, though with her giddy 
vanity and willfulness she squeezed the mistrust 
away into a corner of her mind, and blocked it 
up there. 


/ Mrs. Lammle took the friendliest interest in 


Bella’s making a good match. Mrs. Lammle 
said, in a sportive way, she really must show 
her beautiful Bella what kind of wealthy creat- 
ures she and Alfred had on hand, who would ag 
one man fall at her feet enslaved. Fitting occa- 
sion made, Mrs. Lammle accordingly produced 
the most passable of those feverish, boastful, and 
indefinably loose gentlemen who were always 
lounging in and out of the City on questions of 
the Bourse and Greek and Spanish and India 
and Mexican and par and premium and discount 
and three-quarters and seven-eighths. Who in 
their agreeable manner did homage to Bella as 
if she were a compound of fine girl, thorough- 
bred horse, well-built drag, and remarkable pipe. 
But without the least effect, though even Mr, — 
Fledgeby’s attractions were cast into the scale. 

**] fear, Bella dear,” said Mrs. Lammle one 
day in the chariot, ‘‘that you will be very hard 
to please.” 

‘*T don’t expect to be pleased, dear,” said 
Bella, with a languid turn of her eyes. 

‘*'Truly, my love,” returned Sophronia, shak- 
ing her head, and smiling her best smile, ‘‘it 
would not be very easy to find a man worthy of 
your attractions.” 

‘The, question is not a man, my dear,” said 
Bella, coolly, ‘‘ but an establishment.” 

‘*My love,” returned Mrs. Lammle, ‘‘ your 
prudence amazes me—where did you study life 
so well!—you are right. In such a case as 
yours, the object is a fitting establishment. You 
could not descend to an inadequate one from 
Mr. Boffin’s house, and even if your beauty alone 
could not command it, it is to be assumed that 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin will—” 

‘*Oh! they have already,” Bella interposed. 

‘*No! Have they really?” 

A little vexed by a suspicion that she had 
spoken precipitately, and withal a little defiant 
of her own vexation, Bella determined not to 
retreat. 

‘‘That is to say,” she explained, ‘‘ they have 
told me they mean to portion me as their adopted 
child, if you mean that. But don’t mention it.” 

‘¢ Mention it!” replied Mrs. Lammle, as if she 
were full of awakened feeling at the suggestion 
of such an impossibility. ‘* Men-tion it!” 

‘¢T don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Lammle—” 
Bella began again. 

‘My love, say Sophronia, or: I must not say 
Bella.” 

With a little short, petulant ‘‘Oh!” Bella 
complied. ‘*Oh!—- Sophronia then —TI don’t 
mind telling you, Sophronia, that I am con- 
vineed I have no heart, as people call it; and 
that I think that sort of thing is nonsense,” 

‘Brave girl!) murmured Mrs. Lammle. 

* “And so,” pursued Bella, ‘‘as to seeking to 
please myself, I don’t; except in the one respect 
Ihave mentioned. I am indifferent otherwise.” 


210 : 


Mrs. Lammle, rallying her with an arch look 
and her best smile, ‘‘you can’t help making a 
proud and an admiring husband. You may not 
care to please yourself, and you may not care to 
please him, but you are not a free agent as to 
pleasing: you are forced to do that, in spite of 
yourself, my dear; so it may be a question wheth- 
er you may not as well please yourself too, if you 
can.” 

Now, the very grossness of this flattery put 
Bella upon proving that she actually did please 
in spite of herself. She had a misgiving that 
she was doing wrong—though she had an indis- 
tinct foreshadowing that some harm might come 
of it thereafter, she little thought what conse- 
quences it would really bring about—but she 
went on with her confidence. 

**J)on’t talk of pleasing in spite of one’s self, 
dear,” said Bella. ‘‘I have had enough of 
that.” 

“* Ay ?” cried Mrs. Lammle, 
corroborated, Bella?” 

**Never mind, Sophronia, we will not speak 
of it any more. Don’t ask me about it.” 

This plainly meaning Do ask me about it, 
Mrs. Lammle did as she was requested. 

“Tell me, Bella. -Come, my dear. What 
provoking burr has been inconvenicntly attract- 
ed to the charming skirts, and with difficulty 
shaken off?” 

“Provoking indeed,” said Bella, ‘‘and no 
burr to boast of! But don’t ask me.” 

*¢Shall I guess ?” 

**You would never guess. 
say to our Secretary ?” 

‘“My dear! The hermit Secretary, who 
creeps up and down the back stairs, and is nev- 
er seen !”’ 

**T don’t know about his creeping up and 
down the back stairs,” said Bella, rather con- 
temptuously, ‘‘further than knowing that he 
does no such thing; and as to his never being 
seen, I should be content never to have seen 
him, though he is quite as visible as you are. 
But I pleased him (for my sins), and he had the 
presumption to tell me so.” 

“Phe man never made a declaration to you, 
my dear Bella!” 

“Are you sure of that, Sophronia?” said 
Bella. ‘‘/ am not. In fact, I am sure of the 
contrary.” 

‘The man must be mad,” said Mrs. Lammle, 
with a kind of resignation. 

‘‘He appeared to be in his senses,” returned 
Bella, tossing her head, ‘‘and he ‘had plenty to 
say for himself. I told him my opinion of his 
declaration and his conduct, and dismissed him. 
Of course this has all been very inconvenient to 
me, and very disagreeable. It has remained a 
secret, however. That word reminds me to ob- 
serve, Sophronia, that I have glided on into tell- 


‘*Am I already 


What would you 


-ing you the secret, and that I rely upon you 


never to mention it.” 

‘* Mention it!’ repeated Mrs. Lammle, with 
her former feeling. ‘* Men-tion it !” 

This time Sophronia was so much in earnest 
that she found it necessary to bend forward in 
the carringe and give Bella a kiss. A Judas 


order of kiss; for she thought, while she yet 


pressed Bella’s hand after giving it, ‘* Upon vour 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘*But you can’t help pleasing, Bella,” said) by the doting folly of a dustman, I need have. 
‘no relenting toward you. 
sends me here, should forin any schemes fer. 
}making you a victim, I should certainly not. cress 
him again. 


a : 
if my husband, whe 


” 


In those very same moments Bulla 
was thinking, ‘‘ Why am I always at war with 
myself? Why have I told, as if upon compul- 
sion, what I knew all along I ought to have with- 
held? Why am I making a friend of this wo- 
man beside me, in spite of the whispers against 
her that I hear in my. heart ?” 

As usual, there was no answer in the looking- 
glass when she got home and referred these 
questions to it. Perhaps if she had consulted 
some better oracle the result might have been 
more satisfactory; but she did not, and all things 
consequent marched the march before them. 

On one point connected with the watch she 


‘kept on Mr. Boffin she felt very inquisitive, and 


that was the question whether the Secretary 
watched him too, and followed the sure and 
steady change in him, as she did? Her very 
limited intercourse with Mr. Rokesmith ren- 
dered this hard to find out. Their communi- 


-cation now at no time extended beyond the 


preservation of commonplace appearances before 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin; and if Bella and the See- 
retary were ever left alone together by any 
chance he immediately withdrew. She con- 
sulted his face when she could do so covertly, as 
she worked or read, and could make nothing of 
it. He looked subdued; but he had acquired a 
strong command of feature, and, whenever Mr. 
Boffin spoke to him in Bella’s presence, or what- 
ever revelation of himself Mr. Boffin made, the 
Secretary’s face changed no more than a wall, 
A slightly knitted brow, that expressed nothing 
but an almost mechanical attention, and a com- 
pression of the mouth, that might have been a 
guard against a scornful smile—these she saw 
from morning to night, from day to day, from 
week to week, monotonous, unvarying, set, as 
in a piece of sculpture. 

The worst of the matter was that it thus fell 
out insensibly—and most provokingly, as Bella 
complained to herself, in her impetuous little 
manner—that her observation of Mr. B: ffin in- 
volved a continual observation of Mr. Roke- 
smith. ** Won’t ¢hat extract a look from him ?” 
—‘*Can it be possible that makes no impression 
on him?” Such questions Bella would propose 
to herself, often as many times in a day as there 
were hours in it. Impossible to know. Always 
the same fixed face. 

‘*Can he be so base as to sell his very nature 
for two hundred a year?” Bella would think. 
And then, ‘*But why not? It’s a mere question 
of price with others besides him. I suppose I 
would sell mine if I could get enough for it.” 
And so she would come round again to the war 
with herself. 

A kindof illegibility, though a different kind, 
stole over Mr. Boffin’s face. Its old simplicity 
of expression got masked by a certain craftiness 
that assimilated even his good-humor to itself. 
His very smile was cunning, as if he had been 
studying smiles among the portraits of his misers. 
Saving an occasional burst of impatience, or 


coarse assertion of his mastery, his good-humor. 


remained to him, but it had now a sordid alley 


| of distrust; and though his eyes shonld twinkle 
| own showing, you vain heartless girl, puffed up! and all his face should laugh, he would sit hold- — 


<5 Lie, sea Dee ST a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ing himself in his own arms, as if he had an in- 
clination to hoard himself up, and must always 
grudgingly stand on the defensive. . 

What with taking heed of these two faces, and 
what with feeling conscious that the stealthy oc- 
cupation must set some mark on her own, Bella 
soon began to think that there was not a candid 
or a natural face among them all but Mrs. Bof- 
fin’s. None the less because it was far less ra- 
diant than of yore, faithfully reflecting in its 
anxiety and regret every line of change in the 
Golden Dustman’s, 

* Rokesmith,” said Mr. Boffin, one evening 
when they were all in his room again, and he 
and the Secretary had been going over some ac- 
counts, ‘* Il am spending too much money. Or 
leastways, you are spending too much for me.” 

‘* You are rich, Sir.” ’ 

“Tam not,” said Mr. Boffin. 

The sharpness of the retort was next to telling 
the Secretary that he lied. But it brought no 
change of expression into the set face. 

**{} tell you I am not rich,” repeated Mr. Bof- 
fin, ‘‘and I won’t have it.” 

‘You are not rich, Sir?” repeated the Secre- 
tary, in measured words. 

** Well,” returned Mr. Boffin, ‘if I am, that’s 
my business. I am not going to spend at this 
rate to please you or any body. You wouldn’t 
like it if it was your money.” 

** Even in that impossible case, Sir, I—” 

** Hold your tongue!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘* You 
oughtn’t to like it in any case. 
mean to bé rude, but you put me out so, and 
after all ?m master. I didn’t intend to tell you 
to hold your tongue. 
hold your tongue. Only, don’t contradict. Did 
you ever come across the life of Mr. Elwes ?” 
referring to his favorite subject at last. , 

‘<The miser ?” 

‘* Ah, people called him a miser! 
always calling other people something. Did you 
ever read about him?” 

“T think so.” 

‘He never owned to being rich, and yet he 
might have bought me twice over. Did you ever 
hear of Daniel Dancer ?” 

‘* Another miser? Yes.” 

** He was a good ’un,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘and 
he had a sister worthy of him. They never 
called themselves rich neither. 
called themselves rich, most likely they wouldn't 
have been so.” 

“They lived and died very miserably. Did 
they not, Sir?” 

‘No, I don’t know that they did,” said Mr. 
Boffin, curtly. 

«Phen they are not the Misers I mean. Those 

abj ct wretches—” ; 
“Don’t call names, Rokesmith,” said Mr. 
Boffin. 
** That exemplary brother and sister—lived 
and died in the foulest and filthiest degradation.” 
_ “They pleased themselves,” said Mr. Boffin, 
**and I suppose they could have done no more 
if they had spent their money. But, however, I 
ain't going to fling mi#te away. Keep the ex- 
pensesdown. The factis, vou ain’t enough here, 
Rokesmith. It wants constant attention in the 
littlest things. Some of us will be dying in a 
_work-house next.” 
‘e ‘* As the persons you have just cited,” quietly 


There! I didn’t | 


IT beg vour pardon. Don’t | 


People-are 


If they had | 


211 


remarked the Secretary, ‘‘thought they would, 
if I remember, Sir.” 

‘‘And very creditable in ’em, too,” said Mr. 
Boffin, ‘+ Veryindependentin’em! But never 
mind them just now. Have you given notice to 
quit your lodgings ?” 

‘* Under your direction I have, Sir.” 

‘Then I tell you what,” said Mr. Boffin; 
**pay the quarter’s reut—pay the quarter’s rent, 
it'll be the ¢heapest thing in the end—and come 
here at once, so that you may be always on the 
spot, day and night, and keep the expenses down. 
You'll charge the quarter’s rent to me, and we 
must try and save it somewhere. You've got 
some lovely furniture ; haven’t you?” 

‘<The furniture in my rooms is my own.” 

“Then we sha'n’t have to buy any for you. 
In case you was to think it,” said Mr. 3offin, 
with a look of peculiar shrewdness, ‘so honor- 
ably independent in you as to make it a relief to 
your mind, to make that furniture over to me in 


the light of a set-off against the quarter’s rent, 


why ease your mind, ease your mind. I don’t 
ask it, but I won’t stand in your way if you 
should consider it due to yourself. As to your 
room, choose any empty room at the top of the 
house.” 

‘*Any empty room will do for me,” said the 
Secretary. 

‘*You can take your pick,” said Mr. Boffin, 
‘Cand it'll be as good as eight or ten shillings a 
week added to yourincome. Iwon’t deduct, for 
it; [I look to you to make it up handsomely by 
keeping the expenses down. Now, if vou’ll show 


_a light, Pll come to your office-room and dispose 


of a letter or two.” 

On that clear, generous face of Mrs. Boffin’s 
Bella had seen such traces of a pang at the heart 
while this dialogue was being held, that she had 
not the courage to turn her eves to it when they 
were left alone. Feigning to be intent on her 


/embroidery, she sat plying her needle until her 


busy hand was stopped by Mrs. Boffin’s hand 
being lightly laid upon it. Yielding to the touch, 
she felt her hand carried to the good soul’s lips, 
and felt a tear fall on it. 

“Oh, my loved husband!” said Mrs. Boffin. 
‘This is hard to see and hear. But my dear 
Bella, believe me that in spite of all the change 
in him he is the best of men.” 

He came back, at the moment when Bella had 
taken the hand comfortinglv between her own. 

‘* ih ?” said he, mistrustfully looking in at the 
door. ‘* What's she telling you?” 

‘¢ She is only praising you, Sir,’ said Bella. 

‘Praising me? You are sure? Not blam- 
ing me for standing on my own defense against 
a crew of plunderers, who would suck me dry by 
dribblets? Not blaming me for getting a little 
hoard together ?” 

He came up to them, and his wife folded her 
hands upon his shoulder, and shook her head as 
she laid it on her hands. 

‘¢There, there, there!” urged Mr. Boffin, not 
unkindly.  ‘* Don’t take on, old lady.” 

‘‘ But I can’t bear to see you so, my dear.” 

‘¢Nonsense! Recollect, we are not our old 
selves. Recollect, we must scrunch or be 
scrunched. Recollect, we must hold our own. 
Recollect, money makes money. Don’t you be 
uneasy, Bella, my child; don’t you be doubtful. 
The more-I save, the more you shall have.” 


212 


Bella thought it was well for his wife that she 
was musing with her affectionate face on his 
shoulder; for there was a cunning light in his 
eyes as he said all this which seemed to cast a 
disagreeable illumination on the change in him, 
and make it morally uglier. 


eS 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS. INTO WORSE 
COMPANY. 


Ir had come to pass that Mr. Silas Wegg now 
rarely attended the minion of fortune and the 
worm of the hour, at his (the worm’s and ‘hin- 
jon’s) own honse, but lay under general instruc- 
tions to await him within a certain margin of 
hours at the Bower. Mr. Wegg took this ar- 
rangement in great dudgeon, because the ap- 
pointed hours were evening hours, and those he 
considered precious to the progress of the friend- 
ly move. But it was quite in character, he bit- 
terly remarked to Mr. Venus, that the upstart 
who had trampled on those eminent creatures, 
Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, 
and Uncle Parker, should oppress his literary 
man. 

The Roman Empire having worked out its de- 
struction, Mr, Boffin next appeared in a cab 
with Rollin’s Ancient History, which valuable 
work being found to possess lethargic properties, 
broke down, at about the period when the whole 
of the army of Alexander the Macedonian (at 
that time about forty thousand strong) burst into 
tears simultaneously, on his being taken with a 
shivering fit after bathing. The Wars of the 
Jews, likewise languishing under Mr. Wegg’s 
generalship, Mr. Boffin arrived in another cab 
with Plutarch: whose Lives he found in the 
sequel extremely entertaining, though he hoped 
Plittarch might not expect him to believe them 
all. What to believe, in the course of his read- 
ing, was Mr. Boffin’s chief literary difficulty in- 
deed; for some time he was divided in his mind 
between half, all, or none; at length, when he 
decided, as a moderate man, to compound with 
half, the question still remained, which half? 
And that stumbling-block he never got over. 

One evening, when Silas Wegg had grown ac- 
customed to the arrival of his patron in a cab, 
accompanied by some profane historian charged 
with unutterable names of incomprehensible peo- 
ples, of impossible descent, waging wars any 
number of years and syllables long, and carry- 
ing illimitable hosts and riches about, with the 
greatest ease, beyond the confines of geography 
—one evening the usual time passed by, and no 
patron appeared. After half an hour's grace 
Mr. Wegg proceeded to the outer gate, and there 
executed a whistle, conveying to Mr. Venus, if 
perchance within hearing, the tidings of his 
being at home and disengaged. Forth from the 
shelter of a neighboring’ wall Mr. Venus then 
emerged. 4 

‘‘Brother in arms,” said Mr. Wegg, in excel- 
lent spirits, ‘f welcome !” 

In return, Mr. Venus gave him a rather dry 
good-evening. 

‘¢Walk in, brother,” said Silas, clapping him 
on the shoulder, ‘‘and take your seat in my 
chimley-corner; for what says the ballad? 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘No malice to dread, Sir, 

And no falsehood to fear, 

But truth to delight me, Mr. Venus, 
And I forgot what to cheer, 

Li toddle dee om dee. 

And something to guide, 

My ain fireside, Sir, 

My ain fireside.’ ”’ 


With this quotation (depending for its neatness 
rather on the spirit than the words) Mr. Wegg 
conducted his guest to his hearth. 
*¢ And you come, brother,” said Mr. Wegg, in 
a hospitable glow, ‘‘ you come like I don’t know 
what—exactly like it—I shouldn’t know you 
from it—shedding a halo all around you.” 
‘¢ What kind of halo?” asked Mr. Venus. 
"Ope, Sir,’ replied Silas. ‘*That’s your 
halo.” 
Mr. Venus appeared doubtful on the point, 
and looked rather discontentedly at the fire. 
“We'll devote the evening, brother,” ex- 
claimed Wegg, ‘‘ to prosecute our friendly move. 
And arterwards, crushing a flowing wine-cup 
—which IJ allude to brewing rum and water— 
we'll pledge one another. For what says the 
Poet? 
‘And you needn’t Mr. Venus be your black bottle, 
For surely [ll be mine, 
And we'll take a glass with a slice of lemon in it to 
which you're partial, 
For auld lang syne.’” 


» 


This flow of quotation and hospitality in Wegg 
indicated his observation of some little queru- 
lousness on the part of Venus. 

‘¢ Why, as to the friendly move,” observed the 
last-named gentleman, rubbing his knees peevish- 
ly, ‘‘one of my objections to it is, that it don’t 
move.” 

“Rome, brother,” returned Wege: “a city 
which Qt may not be generally known) origina- 
ted in twins and a wolf, and ended in Imperial 
marble: wasn’t built in a day.” 

‘‘Pid I say it was?” asked Venus. 

‘*No, you did not, brother. Well-inquired.”’ 

‘*But [I do say,” proceeded Venus, ‘that I 
am taken from among my trophies of anatomy, 
am called upon to exchange my human warious 
for mere coal-ashes warious, and nothing comes 
of it. I think I must give up.” 

‘“No, Sir!” remonstrated Wegg, enthusiastic 
ally. ‘No, Sir! 

‘Charge, Chester, charge, 
On, Mr. Venus, on!’ 
Never say die, Sir! A man of your mark , 

“It’s not so much saying it that I object to,” 
returned Mr. Venus, ‘‘as doing it. And hav- 
ing got to do it whether or no, I can’t afford 
to waste my time on groping for nothing in cin- 
ders.” i 
‘¢ But think how little time you have given to 
the move, Sir, after all,” urged Wegg. ‘* Add 
the evenings so occupied together, and what do 
they come to? And you, Sir, harmonizer with 
myself in opinions, views, and feelings, you with 


99 


ithe patience to fit together on wires the whole 


frame-work of society—I allude to the human 
skelinton—yon to give in so soon!” a 

‘‘T don’t like it,” returned Mr. Venus moodi- 
ly, as he put his head between his knees and — 
stuck up his dusty hair. ‘‘And there’s no en-_ 
couragement to go on.” hs 


‘Not them Mounds without,” said Mr. Wegg, — 


extending his right hand with an air of solemn ~ 
1 Se 


_ ae 
‘ie 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


reasoning, ‘‘encouragement? Not them Mounds 
now looking down upon us?” 

“They’re too big,” grumbled Venus. ‘*What’s 
a scratch here and a scrape there, a poke in this 
place and a dig in the other, tothem? Besides; 
what have we found ?” 

‘¢What have we found ?” cried Wegg, delighted 
to be able to acquiesce. ‘‘Ah! There I grant 
you, comrade. Nothing. But on the contrary, 
comrade, what may we find? ‘There you'll grant 
me. Any thing.” 

*¢T don’t like it,” pettishly returned Venus as 
before. ‘‘I came into it without enough con- 
sideration. And besides again. Isn’t your own 
Mr. Boffin well acquainted with the Mounds? 
And wasn’t he well acquainted with the deceased 
and his ways? And has he ever showed any ex- 
pectation of finding any thing?” 

At that moment wheels were heard. 

_ **Now, I should be loth,” said Mr. Wegg, 
with an air of patient injury, ‘‘to think so ill of 
him as to suppose him capable of coming. at this 
time of night. And yet it sounds like him.” 

A ring at the yard bell. 

*¢Itzs him,” said Mr. Wegg, ‘‘and he 7s capa- 
ble of it. I am sorry, because I could have 
wished to keep up a little lingering fragment of 
respect for him.” 

Here Mr. Boffin was heard lustily calling at 
the yard gate, ‘‘ Halloa! Wegg! Halloa!”’ 

“* Keep your seat, Mr. Venus, ’’said Wegg. 
‘“*He may not stop.” And then called out, 
“Halloa, Sir! Halloa! I’m with you directly, 
Sir! Half a minute, Mr. Boffin. Coming, Sir, 
as fast as my leg will bring me!” And so with 
a show of much cheerful alacrity stumped out 
to the gate with a light, and there, through the 
window of a cab, descried Mr. Boffin inside, 
blocked up with books. 

‘* Here! lend a hand, Wegg,” said Mr. Bof- 
fin, excitedly, ‘‘I can’t get out till the way is 
cleared for me. This is the Annual Register, 
Wegg, in a cab-full of wollumes. Do'you know 
him?” 

‘‘ Know the Animal Register, Sir ?” returned 
the Impostor, who had caught the name imper- 
fectly. ‘* For a trifling wager, I think I could 
find any Animal in him, blindfold, Mr. Boffin.” 

*¢ And here’s Kirby’s Wonderful Museum,” 
Said Mr. Boffin, “and Caulfield’s Characters, and 
Wilson’s. Such Characters, Wegg, such Char- 
acters! I must have one or two of the best of 
’em to-night. It’s amazing what places they 
used to put the guineas in, wrapped up in rags. 
Catch hold of that pile of wollumes, Wegg, or 
it’ll bulge out and burst into the mud. Isthere 
any one about to help?” 

‘*There’s afriend of mine, Sir, that had the 
intention of spending the evening with me when 
I gave you up—much against my will—for the 
night.” 

“* Call him out,” cried Mr. Boffin, in a bustle ; 
‘sot him to beara hand. Don’t drop that one 
under your arm. It’s Dancer. Him and his 
sister made pies of a dead sheep they found 
when they were out a walking. Where’s your 
friend? Oh, here’s your friend. Would you 
be so good as help Wegg and myself with these 
books? But don’t take Jemmy Taylor of South- 

wark, nor yet Jemmy Wood of Gloucester. 
These are the two Jemmys. I'll carry them 
myself.” 


a it " z. rm 


213 


Not ceasing to talk and bustle, in a state of 
great excitement Mr. Boffin directed the re- 
moval and arrangement of the books, appearing 
to be in some sort beside himself until they were 
all deposited on the floor, and the cab was dis- 
missed, 

4. a There!” said Mr. Boffin, gloating over them. 

There thev are, like the four-and-twenty fid- 
dlers—all of a row. Get on your spectacles, 
Wegg; I know where to find the best of ’em, 
and we'll have a taste at once of what we have 
got before ts. What’s your friend’s name ?” 

Mr. Wegg presented his friend as Mr. Venus. 

‘“Hh?” cried Mr. Boffin, catching at the 
name. ‘* Of Clerkenwell ?” 

“ Of Clerkenwell, Sir,” said Mr. Venus. 

‘* Why, I’ve heard of you,” cried Mr. Boffin. 
‘*T heard of you in the old man’s time. You 
knew him. Did you ever buy any thing of 
him ?” With piercing eagerness. 

‘¢No, Sir,” returned Venus.: 

‘* But he showed you things; didn’t he?” 

Mr. Venus, with a glance at his friend, re- 
plied in the aftirmative. 

‘¢ What did he show you ?” asked Mr: Boffin, 
putting his hands behind him, and eagerly ad- 
vancing his head. ‘‘Did he show you boxes, 
little cabinets, pocket-books, parcels, any thing 
locked or sealed, any thing tied up?” 

Mr. Venus shook his head. 

‘*¢ Are you a judge of china?” 

_ Mr. Venus again shook his head. 

‘¢ Because if he had ever showed you a tea- 
pot Ishould be glad to know of it,” said Mr. 
Boffin. And then, with his right hand at his 
lips, repeated, thoughtfully, ‘a Tea-pot, a Tea- 
pot,” and glanced over the books on the floor, as 
if he knew there was something interesting con- 
nected with a tea-pot somewhere among them. 

Mr. Wegg and Mr. Venns looked at one anoth- 
er wonderingly: and Mr..Wegg, in fitting on his 
spectacles, opened his eyes wide, over their rims, 
and tapped the side of his nose: as an admoni- 
tion to Venus to keep himself generally wide 
awake. 

‘¢A Tea-pot,” repeated Mr. Boffin, continu- 
ing to muse and survey the books; ‘‘a Tea-pot, 
a Tea-pot. Are you ready, Wegg ?” 

‘¢T am at your service, Sir,” replied that gen- 
tleman, taking his usual seat on the usual set- 
tle, ‘and poking his wooden leg under the table 
before it. ‘*Mr. Venus, would you make your- 
self useful, and take a seat beside me, Sir, for 
the conveniency of snuffing the candles ?” 

Venus complying with the invitation while it 
was yet being given, Silas pegged at him with his 
wooden leg, to call his particular attention to 
Mr. Boffin standing musing before the fire, m 
the space between the two settles. 

‘‘Hem! Ahem!” coughed Mr. Wegg, to at- 
tract his employer’s attention. ‘‘ Would you 
wish to commence with an Animal, Sir—from 
the Register ?” 

“No,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘no, Wegg.” — With 
that, producing a little book from his breast- 
pocket, he handed it with great care to the liter- 
ary gentleman, and inquired, ‘‘ What do you 
call that, Wegg ?” i ; 

‘¢ This, Sir,” replied Silas, adjusting his spec- 
tacles, and referring to the title-page, ‘Sig Mer- 
ryweather’s Lives and Anecdotes of Misers. Mr. 
Venus, would you make yourself useful and draw 


214 y OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — ; C 


the candles a little nearer, Sir?” This to have 
a special opportunity of bestowing a stare upon 
his comrade. 

‘©Which of ’em have you got in that lot ?” ask- 
ed Mr. Boffin. ‘* Can you find out pretty easy ?” 

‘¢ Well, Sir,” replied Silas, turning to the ta- 
ble of contents and slowly fluttering the leaves 
of the book, ‘*I should say they must be pretty 
well all here, Sir; here’s a large assortment, 
Sir; my eye catches John Overs, Sir, John Lit- 
tle, Sir, Dick Jarrel, John Elwes, the Reverend 


' Mr. Jones of Blewbury, Vulture Hopkins, Da- 


niel Dancer—” 

‘Give us Dancer, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin. 

With another stare at his comrade; Silas 
sought and found the place. 

‘¢ Page a hundred and nine, Mr. Boffin. Chap- 
ter eight. Contents of chapter, ‘ His birth and 
estate. His garments and outward appearance. 
Miss Dancer and her feminine graces. The Mi- 
ser’s Mansion. The finding of a treasure. The 
Story of the Mutton Pies. A Miser’s Idea of 
Death. Bob, the Miser’s cur. Griffiths and 
his Master. How to turn a penny. <A substi- 


tute for a Fire. The Advantages of keeping a) 


Snuff-box. The Miser dies without a Shirt. The 
Treasures of a Dunghill— ”’ 

‘¢Bh? What's that ?” demanded Mr. Boffin. 

“¢¢The Treasures,’ Sir,” repeated Silas, read- 
ing very distinctly, ‘‘‘ ofa Dunghill.’ Mr. Ve- 
nus, Sir, would you obleege with the snuffers ?” 
This, to secure attention to his adding with his 
lips only, ‘‘ Mounds !” 

Mr. Boffin drew an arm-chair into the space 
where he stood, and said, seating himself and 
slyly rubbing his hands: 

‘¢ Give us Dancer.” 

Mr. Wegg pursued the biography of that emi- 
nent man through its various phases of avarice 
and dirt, through Miss Dancer’s death on a sick 
regimen of cold dumpling, and through Mr. 
Dancer’s keeping his rags together with a hay- 
band, and warming his dinner by sitting upon 
it, down to the consolatory incident of his dying 
naked in a sack. After which he read on as 
follows: 

«¢¢’The house, or rather the heap of ruins, in 
which Mr. Dancer lived, and which at his death 
devolved to the right of Captain Holmes, was a 
most miserable, decayed building, for it had not 
been repaired for more than half a century.’ ” 

(Here Mr. Wegg eyed his comrade and the 
room in which they sat: which had not been re- 
paired for a long time.) 

‘¢* But though poor in external structure, the 
ruinous fabric was very rich in the interior, It 
took many weeks to explore its whole contents ; 
and Captain Holmes found it a very agreeable 
task to dive into the miser’s secret hoards,’ ”’ 

(Here Mr. Wegg repeated ‘secret hoards,’ 
and pegged his comrade again.) 

‘¢¢QOne of Mr. Dancer’s richest escretoires was 
found to be a dung-heap in the cow-house; a 
sum but little short of two thousand five hun- 
dred pounds was contained in this rich piece of 
manure; and in an old jacket, carefully tied, 
and strongly nailed down to the manger, in 
bank-notes and gold were found five hundred 
pounds more.’” 

(Here Mr. Wegg’s wooden leg started forward 
under the table and slowly elevated itself as he 
read on.) 


¢¢¢Several bowls were discovered filled with - 
guineas and half guineas; and at different times 
on searching the corners of the house they found 
various parcels of bank-notes. Some were. 
crammed into the crevices of the wall ;’” 

(Here Mr. Venus looked at the wall.) 

‘¢<« Bundles were hid under the cushions and 
covers of the chairs ;’” : 

(Here Mr. Venus looked under himself on 
the settle.) 

‘+ «Some were reposing snugly at the back of 
the drawers; and notes amounting to six hun- 
dred pounds were found neatly doubled up in 
the inside of an old tea-pot. In the stable the . 
Captain found jugs full of old dollars and shil- 
lings. The chimney was not left unsearched, 
and paid very well for the trouble; for in nine- 
teen different holes, all filled with soot, were 
found various sums of money, amounting to- 
gether to more than two hundred pounds.’ ” 

On the way-to this crisis Mr. Wegg’s wooden 
leg had gradually elevated itself more and more, 


a 


/and he had nudged Mr. Venus with his opposite 


elbow deeper and deeper, until at length the 
preservation of his balance became incompati- 
ble with the two actions, and he now dropped 
over sideways. upon that gentleman, squeezing 
him against the settle’s edge. Nor did cither 
of the two, for some few seconds, make any 
effort to recover himself; both remaining in a 
kind of pecuniary swoon. 

But the sight of Mr. Boffin sitting in the arm- 
chair hugging himself, with his eyes npon the 
fire, acted as a restorative. Counterfeiting a 
sneeze to cover their movements, Mr. Wegg, 
with a spasmodic ‘‘'Tish-ho!” pulled himself 


Ne AD ga Oe ot 


and Mr. Venus up in a masterly manner. 


‘‘Let’s have some more,” said Mr. Boffin, 
hungrily. . ; 
‘‘ John Elwes is the next, Sir. Is it your 
pleasure to take John Elwes?” 
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘Let’s hear what 


John did.” : 
He did not appear to have hidden any thing, 
so went off rather flatly. But an exemplary 7 


lady named Wilcocks, who had stowed away ~ 
gold and silver in a pickle-pot in a clock-case, 
a canister-full of treasure in a hole under her 
stairs, and a quantity of money in an old rat- 
trap, revived the interest. To her sucecedod 
another lady, claiming to be a pauper, whose 
wealth was found wrapped up in little scraps of 
paper and oldrag. To her, another lady, apple- 
woman by trade, who had saved a fortune of ten 


thousand pounds and hidden it ‘‘here and there, 
in cracks and corners, behind bricks and under 
the flooring.” To her, a French gentleman, 
who had crammed up his chimney, rather to the 


detriment of its drawing powers, ‘‘a leather 
valise, containing twenty thousand francs, gold 
coins, and a large quantity of precious stones,” 


; 
(as discovered by a chimney-sweep after his é 


death. By these steps Mr. Wegg arrived at a — 
concluding instance of the human Magpie: q 

‘¢¢ Many years ago there lived at Cambridge 
a miserly old couple of the name of Jardine: 
they had two sons: the father was a perfect 
miser, and at his death one thousand guineas — 
were discovered secreted in his bed. The two — 
sons grew upas parsimonious as their sire. 
When about twenty vears of age they com- — 
menced business at Cambridge as drapers, and _ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


they continued there until their death. The es- 
tablishment of the Messrs. Jardine was the most 
dirty of all the shops in Cambridge. Customers 
seldom went in to purchase, except perhaps out 
of curiosity. ‘The brothers were most disreputa- 
ble-looking beings; for, although surrounded 


with gay apparel as their staple in trade, they 


wore the most filthy rags themselves. It is said 
that they had no bed, and, to save the expense 
of one, always slept on a bundle of packing- 
cloths under the counter. In their housekeep- 
ing they were penurious in the extreme. A 


joint of meat did not grace their board for. 


twenty years. Yet when the first of the broth- 
ers died, the other, much to his surprise, found 


large sums of money which had been secreted | 


even from him.” 

‘* There!’ cried Mr. Boffin. ‘Even from 
him, you see! There was only two of ’em, and 
yet one of ’em hid from the other.” 

Mr. Venus, who since his introduction to the 
French gentleman had been stooping to peer np 
the chimney, had his attention recalled by the 
last sentence, and took the liberty of repeat- 
ing it. 

_ “Do you like it?” asked Mr. Boffin, turning 
suddenly. 

‘*T beg your pardon, Sir?” 

‘*Do you like what Wege’s been a-reading 2” 
Mr Venus answered that he found it extreme- 


_ ly interesting. | 


‘Then come again,” said Mr. Boffin, “and 
hear some more. Come when you like; come 
the day after to-morrow, half an hour sooner. 
There’s plenty more; there’s no end to it.” 

Mr. Venus expressed his acknowledgments 
and accepted the invitation. 

“Tt’s wonderful what’s been hid at one time 


and another,” said Mr. Boffin, ruminating ; 


‘truly wonderful.” 
‘Meaning, Sir,” observed Wegg, with a pro- 
pitiatory face to draw him out, and with another 


~ peg at his friend and brother, ‘‘in the wav of 
pes ; 5 


money.” 


**Money,” said Mr. Boffin. “Ah! And 


papers.” 


. Mr. Wegg, in a languid transport, again 
dropped over on Mr. Venus, and again recover- 
ing himself, masked his emotions with a sneeze. 
**Tish-ho! Did you say papers too, Sir? 
Been hidden, Sir?” 
Hidden and forgot,” said Mr. Boffin. 
** Why the bookseller that sold me the Wondor- 
ful Museum—where’s the Wonderful Mnseum 2” 
He was on his knees on the floor in a moment, 
groping eagerly among the books. 
**Can I assist you, Sir?” asked Wege. 
“No, I have got it; here it is,” said Mr. 


_ Boffin, dusting it with the sleeve of his coat. 


**Wollume four. I know it was the fourth wol- 
lume that the bookseller read it to me out of. 
Look for it, Wegg.” 
Silas took the book and turned the leaves. 
**Romarkable petrefaction, Sir?” 
“No, that’s not it,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘It 


can’t have been a petrefaction.” 


a 


¥; 
\ 
t 


_ @.crown piece, Sir?” 


“Memoirs of General John Reid, common- 
ly called The Walking Rushlight, Sir? With 
portrait?” 

—** No, nor vet him,” said Mr. Boffin. 

* Remarkabl* case of a man who swallowed 


a. 


4 2 


Bo ‘Peak 3 


‘Boffin, waving his hand after a silence. 


215 


‘**To hide it?” asked Mr. Boffin. 

‘Why, no, Sir,” replied Wegg, consulting 
the text, ‘it appears to have been done by acci- 
dent. Oh! This next must be it. ‘Singular 
discovery of a will, lost twenty-one years,’ ” 

‘<That’s it!” cried Mr. Boffin. ‘Read that.” 

“*A most extraordinary case,’” read Silas 
Wegg aloud, “*was tried ‘at the last Marvybor- 
ough assizes in Ireland. It was briefly ‘this: 
Robert Baldwin, in March, 1782, made his will, 
in which he devised the lands now in qucstion 
to the children of his youngest son: soon afier 
which his faculties failed him, and he became 
altogether childish and died, above @¢ighty years 
old. The defendant, the eldest son, immediate- 
ly afterward gave out that his father had de- 
stroyed the will; and no will being found he 
entered into possession of the lands in question, 
and so matters remained for twenty-one years, 
the whole family during all that time believing 
that the father had died without a will. But 
after twenty-one years the defendant’s wife died, 
and he very soon afterward, at the age of sev- 
enty-eight, married a very young woman: which 
caused some anxiety to his two sons, whose 
poignant expressions of this feeling so exasper- 
ated their father, that he in his resentment exe- 
cuted a will to disinherit his eldest son, and in 
his fit of anger showed it to his second son, who 
instantly determined to get at it, and destroy 
it, in order to preserve the property to his broth- 
er, With this view, he broke open his father’s 
desk, where he found—not his father’s will which 
he sought afier, but the will of his grandfather, 
which was then altogether forgotten in the fam- 
ily.’ 7 

‘*There!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘See what men 
put away and forget, or mean to destroy, and 
don’t!” He then added in a slow tone, ‘¢ As— 
ton—ish—ing!’ And as he rolled his eyes all 
round the room, Wegg and Venus likewise roll- 
ed their eyes all round the room. And then 
Wegg, singly, fixed his eves on Mr. Boffin looking 
at the fire again; as if he had a mind to spring 
upon him and demand his thoughts or his life. 

‘* However, time’s up for to-night,” said Mr. 
‘¢ More 
the day after to-morrow. Range the books upon 
the shelves, Wegg. I dare say Mr. Venus will 
be so kind as help vou.” 

While speaking, he thrust his hand into. the 
breast of his outer coat, and struggled with some 
object there that was too large to be got out 
easily. What was the stupefaction of the friend- 
ly movers when this object at last emerging, 
proved to be a much-dilapidated dark lantern ! 

Without at all noticing the effect produced by 
this little instrument, Mr. Boffin stood it on his 
knee, and, producing a box of matches, delib- 
erately lighted the candle in the Jantern, blew 
out the kindled match, and cast the end into the 
fire. ‘I’m going, Wegg,” he then announced, 
‘to take a turn about the place and round the 
vard. I don’t want you. Me and this same 
lantern have taken hundreds—thousands—of _ 
such turns in our time together.” 

“But [T conldn’t think, Sir—not on any ac- 
count, [ couldn't,”—Wege was politely begin- 
ning, when Mr. Boffin, who had risen and was 
going toward the door, stopped: 

“T have told you that I don’t want you, 


Wegg.”’ 


se | OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — oe 


Wegg looked intelligently thoughtful, as if 
that had not occurred to his mind until he now 
brought it to bear on the circumstance. He 
had nothing for it but to let Mr. Boffin go out 
and shut the door behind him. But the instant 
he was on the other side of it Wegg clutched 
Venus with both hands, and said in a choking 
whisper, as if he were being strangled: 

‘¢Mr. Venus, he must be followed, he must 
be watched, he mustn’t be’ lost sight of for a 
moment.” 

‘“Why mustn’t he?” 
strangling. 

‘‘Comrade, you might have noticed I was a 
little elewated in spirits when you come in to- 
night. I’ve found something.” 

‘¢What have you found?” asked Venus, 
clutching him with both hands, so that they 
stood interlocked like a couple of preposterous 
gladiators. 

‘<'There’s no time to tell you now. I think he 
must have gone to look for it. We must have 
an eye upon him instantly.” 

Releasing each other, they crept to the door, 
opened it softly, and peeped ont. It was a 
cloudy night, and the black shadow of the 
Mounds made the dark yard darker. ‘‘If not 
a double swindler,” whispered Wegg, ‘‘why a 
dark lantern? We could have seen what he 

was about if she had carried a light one. Soft- 
ly, this way.’ 

Cautiously along the path that was bordered 
by fragments of crockery set in ashes the two 
stole after him. They could hear him at his pe- 
culiar trot, crushing the loose cinders as he went. 
‘* He knows the place by heart,” muttered Silas, 
‘Cand don’t need to turn his lantern on, con- 
found him!” But he did turn it on. almost in 
that same instant, and flashed its light upon the 
first of the Mounds. 

‘* Ts that the spot ?” asked Venus in a whisper. 

‘“‘He’s warm,”’ said Silas in the same tone. 
‘¢He’s precious warm. He’s close. I think he 
must be going to look for it. What’s that he’s 
got in his hand ?” 

‘“©A shovel,” answered Venus. ‘‘And he 
knows how to use it, remember, > Aifty times as 
well as either of us.’ 

‘“‘Tf he looks for it and misses it, partner,” 
suggested Wegg, ‘‘ what shall we do 2” 

‘< First of all, wait till he does,’’ said Venus. 

Discreet edviun too, for he darkened his lan- 
tern again, and the mound turned black. After 
a few seconds he turned the light on once more, 
and was seen standing at the foot of the second 
mound, slowly raising the lantern little by little 
until he held it up at arm’s-length, as if he were 
examining the condition of the “whole surface. 

‘*That can’t be the spot too?” said Venus. 

‘¢No,”’ said Wegg, ‘‘he’s getting cold.” 

‘Tt strikes me,” whispered Venus, ‘‘that he 
wants to find out whether any one has been 
groping about there.” 

‘‘Hush!” returned Wegg, ‘‘he’s getting cold- 
er and colder.—Now he’s freezing !” 

This exclamation was elicited by his having 
turned the lantern off again, and on again, and 
being visible at the foot of the third mound. 

‘“¢Why, he’s going up it!” said Venus. 

“¢ Shovel and all!” said Wegg. : 

At a nimbler trot, as if the shovel over his 
shoulder stimulated him by reviving old associ- 


asked Venus, also 


ations, Mr. Boffin ascended the ‘‘serpentining — 
walk,” up the Mound which he had described 
to Silas Wegg on the occasion of their beginning 
to decline and fall. On striking into it he turn- 
ed his lantern off. The two followed him, stoop- 
ing low, so that their figures might make no 
mark in relief against the sky when he should 
turn his lantern on again. Mr. Venus took the 
lead, towing Mr. Wegg, in order that his re- 
fractory leg might be promptly extricated from 
any pitfalls it should dig for itself. They could 
just make out that the Golden Dustman stopped 
to breathe. Of course they stopped too, in- 
stantly. 

‘«‘This is his own Mound,” whisper ed Wegg, 
as he recovered his wind, “this one.’ 

‘¢ Why all three are his own,” returned Ves 
nus. 

‘¢So he thinks; but he’s used to call this his 
own, because it’s the one first left to him; the 
one that was his legacy when it was all he ‘took 
under the will.” 

‘‘ When he shows his light,” said Venus; 
keeping watch upon his dusky figure all the 
time, ‘drop lower and keep closer.’ 

He went on again, and they followed again. 
Gaining the top of the Mound, he turned on his 
light—but only partially—and stood it on the: 
ground. <A bare lopsided weather-beaten pole 
was planted in the ashes there, and had been 
there many a year. Hard by this pole lis lan- 
tern stood: lighting a few feet of the lower part. 
of it and a little of the ashy surface around, and 
then casting off a purposeless little clear trail of 
light into the air. 

‘‘He can never be going to dig up the pole!” 
whispered Venus as they. dropped low and kept: 
close. 

‘¢Perhaps it’s holler and full of something,” 
whispered Wegg. 

He was going to dig, with whatsoever object, ° 
for he tucked up his enffs and spat on his hands, 
and then went at it like an old digget as ‘he was. ° 
He had no design upon the pole, except that he® 
measured a shovel’s length from it before begin- 


_ning, nor was it his purpose to dig deep. Some 


dozen or so of expert strokes sufficed. ‘Then he 
stopped, looked down into the cavity, bent. over 
it, and took out what appeared to be an ordinary _ 
case-bottle: one of those squat, high-shouldered, — 
short-necked glass bottles which the Dutchman — 
is said to keep his.Courage in. As soon as he 
had done this he turned off his lantern, and - 
they could hear that he was filling up the hole 
in the dark. The ashes being easily moved by 
a skillful hand, the spies took this as a hint to. 

make off in good time.. Accordingly, Mr. ae 
nus slipped past Mr. Wegg and towed him down. - 
But Mr. Wegg’s descent was not. accomplished — ; 
without some personal inconvenience, for his ~ 
self-willed leg sticking into the ashes about half- — 
way down, and time pressing, Mr. Venus took — 
the liberty of hauling him from his tether by the f 
collar: which occasioned him to make the rest — 
of the journey on his back, with his head envel-_ 
oped in the skirts of his coat, and his wooden — 
leg coming last, like a drag. So flustered was 
Mr. Wegg by this mode of tr aveling, that. when 
he was set on the level ground with his intel-— 
lectual developments uppermost, he was quite | 
unconscious of his bearings, and had not the 
least idea where his place of residence was to 


the pole atop, Sir.” 


to it: 


» ‘Yes; they’re 


de ree! OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 
ia ode found, until Mr. Venus shoved him into it. 


‘Hyen then he staggered round and round, weak- 
ly staring about him, until Mr. Venus with a 


__ hard brush brushed his senses into him and the 


dust out of him. 

Mr. Boftin came down leisurely, for this brush- 
ing process had been well accomplished, and Mr. 
Venus had had time to take his breath, before 
he reappeared. That he had the bottle some- 
where about him conld not be doubted ; where, 
Was not so clear. He wore a large rough coat, 
buttoned over, and it might be in any one of 
half a dozen pockets. 

“@Vhat’s the matter, Wegg?” said Mr. Bof- 
fin. ‘You aré as pale as a candle.” 

Mr. Wegg replied, with literal exactness, that 
he felt as if he had had a turn. 

** Bile,” said Mr. Boffin, blowing out the light 
in the lantern, shutting it up, and stowing it 
away in the breast of his coat as before, « Are 
you subject to bile, Wegg 2” 


Mr. Wegg again replied, with strict adher- | 
, that he didn’t think he had ever | 
sensation in his head, to any thing | 


ence to truth 
had a similar 
like the same extent. 

** Physic yourself to-morrow, Wege,” said Mr. 
Boffin, *‘to be in order for next night. By-the- 
by, this neighborhood is going to have a loss, 
Wege.” 

A loss, Sir?” 

“Going to lose the Mounds.” 

_ The friendly movers made such an obvious 
effort not to look atone another, that they might 
as well have stared at one another with all their 
might. 

*“‘Have you parted with them, Mr. Boffin?” 
asked Silas, | 
going. Mine’s as good as gone 
already.” : 
_ “You mean the little one of the three, with 


t 
** Yes,” said Mr. Boffin, rubbing his ear in his 


» old way, with that new touch of craftiness added 
It’il begin to | 


“Tt has fetched a 
be carted off to-morrow.” 
** Have you been ont to take leave of your old 
friend, Sir?” asked Silas, jocosely. 
_**No,” said Mr. Boffin. 
put that in your head 2” 
__ He was so sudden and rough, that Wege, who 


penny. 


had been hovering closer and closer to his skirts, 


dispatching the back of his hand on exploring 
-€xpeditions in search of the bottle’s surface, re- 
tired two or three paces. ; 
** No offense, Sir,” said Wegg, humbly. 
offense.” 
_ Mr. Boffin eyed him as a dog might eye an- 
ether dog who wanted his bone; and actually 
retorted with a low growl, as the dog might have 
‘Yetorted. 
_ *Good-night,” he said, after having sunk into 
-& moody silence, with his hands clasped behind 
him, and his eyes suspiciously wandering about 
Weeg. “No! stop there. I know the way out, 
and [ want no light.” 
ee: Avarice, and the evening’s legends of avarice, 
and the inflammatory etfect of what he had seen, 


66 No 


Ean perhaps the rush of his ill-conditioned blood | 


to his brain in his descent, wrought Silas Wegg 
such a pitch of insatiable appetite, that when 
the door closed he made a swoop at it and drew 
Venus along with him. 

ae 14 


\ eed 


n, 
Dot 
a2 


a 
; 


**What the devil. 
; }it with an air of having been highlv—but dis- 


‘let him go! 


217 

‘‘We mustn’t 
He has got that bottle about him. 
We must have that bottle a 

“Why, you wouldn’t take it by force ?” said 
Venus, restraining him, 

‘‘Wouldn’t I? Yes I would. 
any force, F'd have it at 
afraid of one old man 
coward ?” 

“Tam so afraid of you 
muttered» Venus, sturdily, 
arms, 

. “Did you hear him ?” 
you hear him say that he was resolved to disap- 
point us? Did you hear him say, you cur, that 
he was going to have the Mounds cleared off, 
when no doubt the whole place will be rum- 
maged? If you haven’t the spirit of a mouse to 
defend your rights, Ihave. Let me go after him.” 

Ag in his wildness he was making a strong 
struggle for it, Mr. Venus deemed it expedient 
to lift him, throw him, and fall with him; well 
knowing that, once down, he would not be up 
again easily with his wooden leg. So they both 
rolled on the floor, and, as they did so, Mr, 
Boffin shut the gate. 


“He mustn’t go!” he cried. 


I'd take it by 
aly price! Are you so 
as to let him go, you 


as not to let you go,” 
clasping him in hig 


retorted Wegg. ‘Did 


—_———-______. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE FRIENDLY MOVE TAKES UP A STRONG 
POSITION, 


THE friendly movers sat upright on the floor, 
panting and eying one another, after Mr. Boffin 
had slammed the gate and gone away. In the 
weak eyes of Venus, and in every reddish dust- 
colored hair in his shock of hair, there was a 
marked distrust of Wegg and an alertness to fly 
at him on perceiving the smallest occasion. In 
the. hard-grained face of Wegg, and in his stiff 
knotty figure (he looked like a German wooden 
toy), there was expressed a politic conciliation, 
which had no spontaneity in it. © Both were 
flushed, flustered, and rumpled, by the late 
scuffle; and Wegg, in coming to the ground, 
had received a humming knock on the back of 
his devoted head, which caused him still to rub 


agreeably—astonished, Each was silent for some 
time, leaving it to the other to begin. 

‘* Brother,” said Wegg, at length breaking the 
silence, ‘‘you were right, and I was wrong. I 
forgot myself.” 

Mr. Venus knowingly cocked his shock of hair: 
as rather thinking Mr, Wegg had remembered 
himself, in respect of appearing without any dis-. 
guise, 

‘* But comrade,” pursued Wegg, “it was never 
your lot to know Miss Elizabeth, Master George. 
Aunt Jane, nor Uncle Parker.” 

Mr. Venus admitted that he had never known 
those distinguished persons, and added, in effect, 
that he had never so much as desired the honor: 
of their acquaintance. 

‘“Don’t say that, comrade!” retorted Wege: 
‘* No, don’t say that! Because, without having 
known them, you never can fully know what it 
is to be stimilated to frenzy by the sight of the 
Usurper.” ; 

Offering these excusatory words as if they re- 
flected great credit on himself, Mr. Wegg: im- 


O18 


pelled himself with his hands toward a clair in 
a corner of the room, and there, after a variety 
of awkward gambols, attained a perpendicular 
* position. Mr. Venus also ruse. 

‘« Comrade,” said Wegg, ‘‘ take a seat. Com- 
rade, what a speaking countenance is yours!” 

Mr. Venus involuntarily smoothed his coun- 
tenance, and looked at his hand, as if to see 
whether any of its speaking properties came off. 

‘For clearly do know, mark you,” pursued 
Wegg, pointing his words with his forefinger, 
“¢clearly do I know what question your express- 
ive features puts to me.”’ 

‘¢ What question ?” said Venus. 

“The question,” returned Wegg, with a sort 
of joyful affubility, ‘why I didn’t mention sooner 
that I.had found something. Says your speak- 
ing countenance to me: ‘Why didn’t you com- 
municate that when I first come in this even- 
ing? Why did you keep it back till you thought 
Mr. Boffin had come to look for the article?’ 
Your speaking countenance,” said Wegg, ‘‘ puts 
it plainer than language. Now, you can’t read 
in my face what answer I give ?” 

‘¢No, I can’t,” said Venus. 

“‘T knew it! And why not?” returned Wegg, 
with :the same joyful candor. ‘‘ Because I lay 
no claims to a speaking countenance. Because 
ZT am well aware of my deficiencies. All men 
are not gifted alike. But I can answer in words. 
And in what words? These. I wanted to give 
you a delightful sap—pur—IzE 1” 

Having thus elongated and emphasized the 
word Surprise, Mr. Wegg_ shook his friend and 
brother by both hands, and then clapped him on 
poth knees, like an affectionate patron who en- 
treated him not to mention so small a service as 
that which it had been his happy privilege to 
render. 

‘Your speaking countenance,” said Wegg, 
‘‘being answered to its satisfaction, only asks 
then, ‘What have you found?’ Why, I hear it 
sy the words!” 

‘¢Well?” retorted Venus, snappishly,. after 
waiting invain, ‘‘If you hear it say the words, 
why don’t you answer it ?” 

‘sHear me out!” said Wegg. ‘‘I’m a-going 
to. Hear me out! Man and brother, partner 
in feelings equally with undertakings and ac- 
tions, I have found a cash-box.” 

‘¢ Where ?”’ ; 

‘¢__Hear me out!” said Wegg. (He tried to 
reserve whatever he could, and, whenever gis- 
closure was forced upon him, broke into a radi- 
ant gush of Hear me out.) .‘‘On acertain day, 
Sis f 

«¢ When?” said Venus, bluntly. 

‘‘N—no,” returned Wegg, shaking his head 
at once observantly, thoughtfully, and playfully. 
‘No, Sir! That’s not your expressive counte- 
nance which asks that question. That’s your 
voice; merely your voice. To proceed. Ona 
certain day, Sir, I happened to be walking in 
the yard—taking my lonely round—for in the 
words of a friend of my own family, the author 
of All’s Well arranged as a duet: 


‘Deserted, as you will remember, Mr. Venus, by the 
waning moon, 

When stars, it will occur to you before I mention it, 
proclaim night's cheerless noon, 

On tower, fort, or tented ground, 

The sentry walks his lonely round, 

The sentry walks:’ 


| 
i 
| 
| 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. aw 


—under those circumstances, Sir, I happened te 
be walking in the yard early one afternoon, and 
happened to have an iron rod in my hand, with 
which I have been sometimes accustomed to be- 
guile the monotony of a literary life, when I 
struck it against an object not necessary to trou- 
ble you by naming—” 

‘It is necessary. What object?” demanded 
Venus, in a wrathful tone, 

‘¢_ Hear me out!” said Wegg. ‘‘ The Pump. 
—When I struck it against the Pump, and found, 
not only that the top was loose and opened with 
a lid, but that something in it rattled. That 
something, comrade, I discovered to be agmall 
flat oblong cash-box. Shall I say it was disap- 
pintingly light ?” 

‘“'There were papers in it,” said Venus. 

‘¢There your expressive countenance speaks 
indeed!” cried Wegg. ‘‘A paper. ‘The box 
was locked, tied up, and sealed, and on the out- 
side was a parchment label, with the writing, 
‘My WILL, JOHN HARMON, TEMPORARILY DEPOS- 
ITED HERE.’ ” 

‘¢We must know its contents,” said Venus. 

‘‘__Hear me out!” cried Wegg. ‘‘I said so, 
and I broke the box open.” 

‘Without coming to me!” exclaimed Ve- 
nus. : 

“Exactly so, Sir!” returned Wegg, blandly 
and buoyantly. “I see I take you with me! 
Hear, hear, hear! Resolved, as your discrim- 
inating good sense perceives, that if you was to 
have a sap—pur—izx it should be a complete 
one! Well, Sir. And so, as you have hon- 
ored me by anticipating, I examined the docu- 
ment. Regularly executed, regularly witnessed, 
very short. Inasmuch as he has never made — 
friends, and has ever had a rebellious family, — 
he, John Harmon, gives to Nicodemus Bofftn — 
the Littke Mound, which is quite enough for F 
him, and gives the whole rest and residue of his | 
property to the Crown.” 

‘“‘The date of the will that has been proved 
must be looked to,” remarked Venus. ‘It may — 
be later than this one.” | 

‘‘__Hear me out!” cried Wegg. ‘I said so, 
I paid a shilling (never mind your sixpence of | 
it) to look up that will. Brother, that will is— 
dated months before this will. And now, as a- 
fellow-man, and as.a partner in a friendly move,” — 
added Wegg, benignantly taking him by both — 
hands again, and clapping him on both knees” 
again, ‘*say have I completed my labor of love” 
to your perfect satisfaction, and are you sap—_ 
pur—IZED ?” pais 

Mr. Venus contemplated his fellow-man and 
partner with doubting eyes, and then rejoined 
stiffly : oa 

“This is great news indeed, Mr. Weegg. | 
There’s no denying it. But I could have wish- 
ed you had told it me before you got your fright 
to-night, and I could have wished you had ever 
asked me as your partner what we were to do, 
before you thought you were dividing a respons-— 
ibility.” a 

‘‘ Hear me out!” cried Wegg. ‘I knew 
you was a-going to say so. But alone I bor 
the anxiety, and alone I'll bear the blamel’ 
This with an air of great magnanimity. 

‘ & Now,” said Venus. ‘“ Let’s see this will a 
this box.” RS oa 

‘‘Do I understand, brother,” returned Wegt 


~o 


ow 


with considerable reluctance, ‘that it is your 
wish to see this will and this—” 
Mr. Venus smote the table with his hand. 
_ Hear me out!” said Were. ‘‘Hear me 
out! Jil go and fetch ’emn.” . 
_ After being some time absent, as if in his coy- 
e€tousness he could hardly make up ‘his mind to 
produce the treasure to his partner, he returned 
with an old leathern hat-box, into which he had 
put the other box, for the better preservation of 
commonplace appearances, and for the disarm- 
ing of suspicion. ‘‘But I don’t half like open- 
ing it here,” said Silas, in a low voice, looking 
around: “‘he might come back, he may not be 
gone; we don’t know what he may be up to, 
after what we’ve seen.” 
*There’s something in that,” assented Venus. 
“Come to my place.” 
i Jealous of the custody of the box, and yet 
«fearful of opening it under the existing circum- 
Stances, Wexg hesitated. ‘ Come, I tell you,” 
repeated Venus, chafing, ‘‘to my place.” Not 
very weil seeing his way to a refusal, Mr. Wegg 
_ then rejoined in a gush, ‘‘—Hear me out!__ 
Certainly.” So he locked up the Bower and 
they set forth: Mr. Venus taking his arm, and 
Keeping it with remarkable tenacity. 
. They found the usual dim light burning in 
the window of Mr. Venus’s establishment, im- 
perfectly disclosing to the public the usual pair 
of preserved frogs, sword in hand, -with their 
point of honor still unsettled. Mr. Venus had 
closed. his shop door on. coming out, and now 
opened it with the key and shut it again as soon 
as they were within; but not before he had put 
up and barred the shutters of the shop window. 
“No one can get in without being let in,”’ said 
_he then, ‘‘and we couldn’t be more snug than 
_ here.” So he raked together the yet warm cin- 
ders in the rusty grate, and made‘a fire, and 
trimmed the candle on the little counter. As 
the fire cast its flickering gleams here and there 
upon the dark greasy walls, the Hindoo baby, 
the African baby, the articulated English baby, 
the assortment of skulls, and the rest of the col- 
lection, came starting to their various stations 
as if they had all been out, like their master, 
and were punctual in a general rendezvous to 
assist at the secret. The French gentleman had 
grown considerably since Mr. Wegg last saw him, 
being now accommodated with a pair of legs and 
a head, though his arms were yet in abeyance. 
‘To whomsoever the head had originally belonged, 
Silas Wegg would have regarded it asa personal 
favor if he had not cut quite so many teeth. 
_ Silas took his seat in silence on the wooden 
box before the fire, and Venus dropping into his 
low chair produced from among his skeleton 
hands his tea-tray and tea-cups, and put the 
k-tile on. Silas inwardly approved of these 
preparations, trusting they might end in Mr. 
Venns’s diluting his intellect. 
‘Now, Sir,” said Venus, “all is safe and 
arc Let us see this discovery.” 
_ With still reluctant hands, and not without 
several glances toward the skeleton hands, as if 
e mistrusted that acouple of them might spring 
orth and clutch the document, Wege opened 
the hat-box and revealed the cash-box, opened 
the cash-box and revealed the will. He held a 
corner of it tight, while Venus, taking hold of an- 
Other corner, searchingly and attentively read it. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


219 


ne Was I correct in my account of it, partner ?” 
said Mr. Wegg at length. 

‘‘ Partner, you were,” said Mr. Venus. 

Mr. Wegg thereupon made an easy, graceful 
movement, as though he would fold it up; but 
Mr. Venus held on by his corner. 

‘* No, Sir,”? said Mr. Venus, winking his weak 
eyes and shaking his head, ‘No, partner. The 
question is now brought up, who is going to take 
care of this. Do you know who is going to take 
care of this, partner ?” 

‘“‘T am,” said Wegg. 

“Oh dear no, partner,” retorted V enus, 
‘* That's a mistake. Iam. Now look here, Mr. 
Wegg. I don’t want to have any words with 
you, and still less do I want to have any ana- 
tomical pursuits with you.” 

‘“What do you mean ?” said Wegg, quickly. 

‘‘T mean, partner,” replied Venus, slowly, 
‘‘that it’s hardly possible for a man to feel in a 
more amiable state toward another man than I 
do toward you at this present moment. But I 
am on my own ground, I am surrounded by the 
trophies of my art, and my tools is very handy.” 

‘“*What do you mean, Mr. Venus?” asked 
Wegg again. 

‘I am surrounded, as I have observed,” said 
Mr. Venus, placidly, ‘by the trophies of my 
art. They are numerous, my stock of human wa- 
rious is large, the shop is preity well crammed, 
and I don’t just now want any more trophies of: 
my art. But I like my art, and I know how to 
exercise my art.” 

‘* No man better,” assented Mr. Wegg, with a 
somewhat staggered air. 

**There’s the Miscellanies of several human 
specimens,” said Venus, ‘‘ (though you mightn’t 
think it) in the box on which you're sitting. 
There’s the Miscellanies of several human speci- 
mens in the lovely compo-one behind the door 3” 
with a nod toward the French gentleman. ‘It 
still wants a pair of arms. -I don’t say that I’m 
in any hurry for ’em.” 

‘You must be wandering in your mind, part- 
ner,’’ Silas remonstrated. 

“* You'll excuse me if I wander,” returned 
Venus; ‘‘I am sometimes rather subject to it. 
I like my art, and I know how to exercise my 
art, and I mean to have the keeping of this doe- 
ument,”’ 7 

‘* But what has that got to do with your art, 
partner ?” asked Wegg, in an insinuating tone. 

Mr. Venus winked his chronically - fatigued 
eyes both at once, and adjusting the kettle on 
the fire, remarked to himself, in a hollow voice, 
‘*She’ll bile in a couple of minutes.” 

Silas Wegg glanced at the kettle, glanced at 
the shelves, glanced at the French gentleman 
behind the door, and shrank a little as he glanced 
at Mr. Venus winking his red eyes, and feel- 
ing in his waistcoat pocket—as for a lancet, say 
—with his unoccupied hand. He and Venus 
were necessarily seated close together, as each 
held a corner of the document, which was but a 
common sheet of paper. ag 

‘* Partner,” said Wegg, even more insinua~ 
tingly than before, ‘‘I propose that we cut it in 
half, and each keep a half.” ; 

Venus shook his shock of hair, as he replied, 
‘Tt wouldn’t do to mutilate it, partner. It 
might seem tobe canceled. . ? 

** Partner,” said Wegg, after a silence, during 


220 


‘which they had contemplated one another, “ don’t 
your speaking countenance say that you're a-go- 
ing to suggest a middle course ?” 

Venus shook his shock of hair as he replied, 
‘‘Partner, you have kept this paper from. me 
once. You shall never keep it from me again. 
I offer you the box and the label to take care of, 
but I’ll take care of the paper.” 

Silas hesitated a little longer, and then sud- 
‘denly releasing his corner, and resuming his 
buoyant and benignant tone, exclaimed, ‘‘What’s 
life without trustfulness! What’s a fellow-man 
without honor! You’re welcome to it, partner, 
in aspirit of trust and confidence.” 

Continuing to wink his red eyes both together 

—but in a self-communing way, and without any 
show of triumph—Mr. Venus folded the paper 
now left in his hand, and locked it in a drawer 
behind him, and pocketed the key. He then 
proposed “ A cup of tea, partner?” To which 
Mr. Wegg returned, ‘‘ Thank’ee, partner,” and 
the tea was made and poured out. 
Next,” said Venus, blowing at his tea in 
his saucer, and looking over it at his confiden- 
tial friend, ‘‘comes the question, What's the 
course to be pursued ?” 

On this head Silas Wegg had much to say. 
Silas had to say That, he would beg to remind 
his comrade, brother, and partner, of the im- 
pressive passages they had read that evening ; 
of the evident parallel in Mr. Boffin’s mind be- 
tween them and the late owner of the Bower, 
and the present circumstances of the Bower ; of 
the bottle; and of the box. That, the fortunes 
of his brother and comrade, and of himself, were 
evidently made, inasmuch as they had but to 
put their price upon this document, and get that 
price from the minion of fortune and the worm 
of the hour: who now appeared to be léess of a 
minion and more of a worm than had been pre- 
viously supposed. ‘That, he considered it plain 
that such price Was stateable in a single express- 
ive word, and that the word was, ‘‘ Halves!” 
That, the question then arose when ‘‘ Halves !” 
should be called. ‘That, here he had a plan of 
action to recommend, with a conditional clause. 
That, the plan of action was that they should 
lie by with patience; that, they should allow the 
Mounds to be gradually leveled and cleared 
away, while retaining to themselves their pres- 
ent opportunity of watching the process—which 
would be, he conceived, to put the trouble and 
cost of daily digging and delving upon some- 
body else, while they might nightly turn such 
complete disturbance of the dust to the account 
of their own private investigations—and that, 
when the Mounds were gone, and they had 
worked those chances for their own joint benefit 
solely, they should then, and not before, explode 
‘on the minion and worm. But here came the 
conditional clause, and to this he entreated the 
special attention of his comrade, brother, and 
partner. It was not to be borne that the min- 
ion and worm should carry off any of that prop- 
erty which was now to be regarded as their own 
property. When he, Mr. Wegg, had seen the 
minion surreptitiously making off with that bot- 
tle, and its precious contents unknown, he had 
looked upon him in the light of a mere robber, 
and, as such, would have despoiled him of his 
ill-gotten gain, but for the judicious interference 
of his comrade, brother, and partner. There- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


* 


fore, the conditional clause he proposed was, 
that, if the minion should return in his late 
sneaking manner, and if, being closely. watched, 
he should be found to possess himself of any 
thing, no matter what, the sharp sword impend- 


‘ing over his head should be instantly shown him, 


he should be strictly examined as to what he 
knew or suspected, should be severely handled 
by them his masters, and should be kept in a 
state of abject moral bondage and slavery until 
the time when they should see fit to permit him 
to purchase his freedom at the price of half his 
possessions. If, said Mr. Wege by way of per- 
oration, he had erred in saying only ** Halves!” 
he trusted to his comrade, brother, and partner 
not to hesitate to set him right, and to reprove 
his weakness. It might be more according to 
the rights of things, to say Two-thirds ; it might 
be more according to the rights-of-things,.to say 
Three-fourths. On those points he was ever 
open to correction. 

Mr. Venus, having wafted his attention to 
this discourse over three successive saucers of 
tea, signified his concurrence in the views ad- 
vanced. Inspirited hereby, Mr. Wegg extended 
his right hand, and declared it to be a hand 
which never yet. Without entering into more 
minute particulars. Mr. Venns, sticking to his 
tea, briefly professed his belief, as polite forms 
required of him, that it was a hand which never 
yet. But contented himself with looking at it, 
and did not take it to his bosom. 

“Brother,” said Wegg, when this happy un- 
derstanding was established, “‘I should like to 
ask you something. You remember the night 
when I first looked in here, and found you float- 
ing your powerful mind in tea?” 

Still swilling tea, Mr. Venus nodded assent. 

‘¢ And there you sit, Sir,” pursued Wegg with 
an air of thoughtful admiration, ‘‘as if you had 
never left off! There you sit, Sir, as if you had 
an unlimited capacity of assimilating the fla- 
grant article! There you sit, Sir, in the midst 
of your works, looking as if you’d been called 
upon for Home, Sweet Home, and was obleeg- 
ing the company ! 

‘A exile from home splendor dazzles in vain, 

O give you your lowly Preparations again, 

The birds stuffed so sweetly that can’t be expected to 
come at your call, ; 


Give you these with the peace of mind dearer than all. 
Home, Home, Home, sweet Home?’ : 


—Be it ever,” added Mr. Wegg in prose as he 
glanced about the shop, ‘‘ever so ghastly, all 
things considered, there’s no place like it.” 

‘¢You said you'd like to ask something; but — 
you haven’t asked it,” remarked Venus, very un-_ 
sympathetic in manner, 


‘‘Yourgpeace of mind,” said Wegg, offering _ 
condolence, ‘‘ your peace of mind was in a poor 
way that night. How’s it going on. Js it look~— 
ing up at all?” ; 

‘¢She does not wish,” replied Mr. Venus with — 
a comical mixture of indignant obstinacy and ~ 
tender melancholy, ‘‘to regard herself, nor yet 
to be regarded, in that particular light. There’s ij 
no more to be said.” eg 

‘‘Ah, dear me, dear me!” exclaimed Wegg 
with a sigh, but eying him while pretending to 
keep him company in eying the fire, ‘‘such 1s 
Woman! And I remember you said that night, 
sitting there as I sat here—said that night when 


except for its plumage, very like myself. 


had taken an interest in these very affairs. Such 


is coincidence!” . 


“Her father,” rejoined Venus, and then stopped 
to swallow more tea, ‘‘her father was mixed up 
in them.” aii 


**You didn’t mention her name, Sir, I think ?” | 


observed Wegg, pensively. ‘‘No, you didn’t 
mention her name that night,” 

** Pleasant Riderhood.”’ 

“In—deed!” cried Wegg. ‘Pleasant Rider- 
hood. / There’s something moving in the name. 
Pleasant. Dear me! Seems to express what 
she might have been if she hadn’t made that un- 
pleasant remark—and what she ain’t in conse- 
quence of having made it. Would it at all pour 
balm into your wounds, Mr. Venus, to inquire 
how you came acquainted with her?” 

**I was down at the water-side,” said Venus, 
taking another gulp of tea and mournfully wink- 
ing at the fire—‘‘ looking for parrots’ —taking 
another gulp and stopping. 

Mr. Wegg hinted, to jog his attention: ‘You 


could hardly have been out parrot-shooting in 


the British climate, Sir?” 
‘No, no, no,” said Venus, fretfully. ‘I was 
down at the water-side looking for parrots brought 


home by sailors, to buy for stuffing.” 


MiBy, ay, ay, Sir!” 

*‘—And looking for a nice pair of rattle- 
snakes, to articulate for a Museum—when I was 
doomed to fall in with her and deal with her. 
It was just at the time of that discovery in the 
river. Her father had seen the discovery being 
towed in the river. .I made the popularity of 
the subject a reason for going back to improve 
the acquaintance, and I have never since been 
the man Iwas. My very bones is rendered flab- 
by by brooding over it. If they could be brought 
to me loose, to sort, I should hardly have the 
face to claim ’em as mine. To such an extent 
have I fallen off under it.” 

Mr. Wegg, less interested than he had been, 


glanced at one particular shelf in the dark. 


**Why I remember, Mr. Venus,” he said, in 
a tone of friendly commiseration ‘‘(for I re- 
member every word that falls from you, Sir), I 
remember that you said that night, you had got 
up there—and then your words was, ‘Never 
mind.” 

‘*—The parrot that I bonght of her,” said 
Venus, with a despondent rise and fall of his 
eves. “Yes; there it lies on its side, dried up; 
I’ve 
never had the heart to ‘prepare it, and I never 
shall have now.” 

_ With a disappointed face, Silas mentally con- 


signed this parrot to regions more than tropical, . 


and, seeming for the time to have lost his power 
of assuming an interest in the woes of Mr. Ve- 
nus, fell to tightening his wooden leg as a prep- 
aration for departure: its gymnastic perform- 
ances of that evening having severely tried its 
constitution, 

After Silas had left the shop, hat-box in hand, 
and had left Mr. Venus to lower himself to obliv- 


ion-point with the requisite weight of tea, it 


greatly preyed on his ingenuons mind that he 


had taken this artist into partnership at all. He 
bitterly felt that he had overreached himself in| 
_ the beginning by grasping at Mr. Venus’s mere £ , 

straws of hints, now shown to be worthless for | promised to protract itself through many days 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


your peace of mind was first laid low, that you 


221 


his purpose. Casting about for ways and means 
of dissolving the connection without loss of mon- 
ey, reproaching himself for having been betrayed 
into an avowal of his secret, and complimenting 
himself beyond measure on his purely accidental 
good-luck, he beguiled ‘the distance between 
Clerkenwell and the mansion of the Golden 
Dustman. 

For Silas Wegg felt it to be quite out of. the 
question that he could lay his head upon his 
pillow in peace without first hovering over Mr, 
Boffin’s house in the superior character of its 
Evil Genius. Power (unless it be the power of 
intellect or virtue) has ever the greatest attrac- 
tion for the lowest natures; and the mere defi- 
ance of the unconscious house-front, with his 
power to strip the roof off the inhabiting family 
like the roof of a house of cards, was a treat 
which had a charm for Silas Wegg. 

As he hovered on the opposite side of the 
street, exulting, the carriage drove up. 

‘“‘There’ll shortly be an end of you,” said 
Wegg, threatening it with the hat-box. ‘‘ Your 
varnish is fading.” 

Mrs. Boffin descended and went in. 

“ Look out for a fall, my Lady Dustwoman,” 
said Wegg. 

Bella lightly descended, and ran in after 
her. 

‘**How brisk we are!” said Wegg. ‘‘You 
won't run so gayly to your old shabby home, my 
girl, You'll have to go there, though.” 

A little while, and the Secretary came out. 

‘‘T was passed over for you,” said Wegg. 
‘* But you had better provide yourself with an- 
other situation, young man.” 

Mr. Boffin’s shadow passed upon the blinds 
of three large windows as he trotted down the 
room, and passed again as he went back: 

‘*Yoop!” cried Wegg. ‘‘You’re there, are 
yon? Where’s the bottle? You would give 
your bottle for my box, Dustman!” 

Having now composed his mind for slumber, 
he turned homeward. Such was the greed of 
the fellow, that his mind had shot beyond halves, 
two-thirds, three-fourths, and gone straight to 
spoliation of the whole. ‘‘ Though that wouldn’t 
| quite do,” he considered, growing cooler as he 
got away. ‘‘That’s what would happen to him 
if he didn’t buy us up. We should get nothing 
by that.” ; 

We so judge others by ourselves, that it had 
never come into his head before that he might 
not buy us up, and might prove honest, and pre- 
fer to be poor. It caused him a slight tremor as 
it passed; but a very slight one, for the idle 
thought was gone directly. 

‘¢He’s grown too fond of money for that,” 
said Wegg; ‘‘he’s grown too fond of money.’ 
The burden fell into a strain or tune as he 
stumped along the pavements. All the way 
home he stumped it out of the rattling streets, 
piano with his own foot, and forte with his wood- 
en leg, ‘‘He’s Grown too FonD of MONEY for 
THAT, he’s GROWN too FOND of MONEY.” — j 

Even next day Silas soothed himself with this 
melodious strain, when he was called out of bed 
at daybreak to set open the yard-gate and admit 
the train of carts and horses that came to carry 
off the little Mound. And all day long, as he 
kept unwinking watch on the slow process which _ 


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It may not be so written in the Gospel accord- 

ing to Podsnappery ; you may not ‘‘ find these 
words” for the text of a sermon, in the Returns 
of the Board of Trade; but they have been the 
truth since the foundations of the universe were 
laid, and they will be the truth until the founda- 
tions of the universe are shaken by the Builder. 
This boastful hundivor of ours, which fails in 
its terrors for the professional pauper, the sturdy 
breaker of windows and the rampant tearer of 
clothes, strikes with a cruel and a wicked stab 
at the stricken sufferer, and is a horror to the 
deserving and unfortunate. We must mend it, 
lords and gentlemen and honorable boards, or in 
its own evil hour it will mar every one of us. 

Old Betty Higden fared upon her pilgrimage 
as many ruggedly honest creatures, women and 
men, fare on their toiling way along the roads 
of life. Patiently to earn a spare bare living, and 
quietly to die, untouched by work-house hands— 
this was her highest sublunary hope. 

Nothing had been heard of her at Mr. Boffin’s 
house since she trudged off. The weather had 
been hard and the roads had been bad, and her 
spirit was up. A less stanch spirit might have 
been subdued by such adverse influences; but 
the loan for her little outfit was in no part re- 
paid, and it had gone worse with her than she 
had foreseen, and she was put upon proving her 
case and maintaining her independence. 

Faithful soul! When she had spoken to the 
Secretary of that ‘‘ deadness that steals over me 
at times,” her fortitude had made too little of 
it. Oftener and ever oftener, it came stealing 
over her; darker and ever darker, like the shad- 
ow of advancing Death. That the shadow should 
be deep as it came on, like the shadow of an 
actual presence, was in accordance with the laws 
of the physical world, for all the Light that shone 
on Betty Higden lay beyond Death. 

The poor old creature had taken the upward 
course of the river Thames as her general track ; 
it was the track in which her last home lay, and 
of which she had last had local love and knowl- 
edge. She had hovered for a little while in the 
near neighborhood of her abandoned dwelling, 
and had sold, and knitted and sold, and gone on. 
In the pleasant towns of Chertsey, Walton, 
Kingston, and Staines, her figure came to be 
quite well known for some short weeks, and then 
again passed on. 

She would take her stand in market-places, 
where there were such things, on market-days ; 
at other times, in the busiest (that was seldom 
very busv) portion of the little quiet High Street ; 
at still other times she would explore the outly- 
ing roads for great houses, and would ask leave 
at the Lodge to pass in with her basket, and 
would not often get it. But ladies in carriages 
would frequently make purchases from her trifling 
stock, and were usually pleased with her bright 
eyes and her hopeful speech. In these and her 
clean dress originated a fable that she was well- 
to-do in the world: one might say, for her sta- 
tion, rich. As making a comfortable provision 
for its subject which costs nobody any thing, this 
class of fable has long been popular. 

In those pleasant little towns on Thames you 
may hear the fall of the water over the weirs, or 
even, in still weather, the rustle of the rushes ; 

and from the bridge you may see the vonng riv- 
er, dimpled like a young child, playfully gliding 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


223 


away among the trees, unpolluted by the defile- 
ments that lie in wait for it on its course, and as 
yet out of hearing of the deep summons of the 
sea. It were too much to pretend that Betty 
Higden made out such thoughts; no; but she 
heard the tender river whispering to smany like 
| herself, ‘‘Come to me, come to me! When the 
icruel shame and terror you have so long fled 
ifrom most beset you, come to me! I am.-thg 
Hae Officer appeinted by eternal ordinance 
ito do my work; I am not held in estimation ac- 
ycording as I shirk it. My breast is softer than 
ithe pauper-nurse’s ; death in my arms is peace- 
‘fuller than among the pauper-wards. Come to 
Ime!” 

There was abundant place for gentler fancies 
too, in her untutored mind. Those gentlefolks 
and their children inside those fine houses, could 
they think,-as they looked out at her, what it 
was to be really hungry, really cold’? Did they 
feel any of the wonder about her that she felt 
about them? Bless the dear laughing children! 
If they could have seen‘sick Johnny in her arms 
would they have cried for pity? If they could 
have seen dead Johnny on that little bed would 
they have understood it? Bless the dear chil- 
dren, for his sake, any how! So with the hum- 
bler houses in the little street, the inner fire- 
light shining on the panes as the outer twilight 
darkened. When the families gathered indoors 
there, for the night, it was only a foolish fancy 
to feel as if it were a little hard in them to close 


the shutter and blacken the flame. So with the 
lighted shops, and speculations whether their 
masters and mistresses taking tea in a perspec- 
tive of back-parlor—not so far within but that 
the flavor of ‘tea and toast came out, mingled 
with the glow of light, into the street—ate or 
drank or wore what they sold, with the greater 
relish because they dealt in it. So with the 
church-yard on a branch of the solitary way to 
the night’s sleeping-place. ‘‘ Ah me! The dead 
and I seem to have it pretty much to ourselves 
in the dark and in this weather! But so much 
the better for all who are warmly housed at 
home.” The poor soul envied no one in bitter- 
“ness, and grudged no one any thing. 

But the old abhorrence grew stronger on her 
as she grew weaker, and it found more sustain- 
ing food than she did in her wanderings. Now, © 
she would light upon the shameful spectacle of 
some desolate creature—or some wretched rag- 
ged groups of either sex, or of both sexes, with 
children among them huddled together like tha 
smaller vermin for a little warmth—lingering 
and lingering on a doorstep, while the appointed 
evader of the public trust did his dirty office of 
trying to weary them out and so get rid of them. 
Now, she would light upon some poor decent 
person, like herself, going afoot on a pilgrimage 
of many weary miles to see some worn-out rela- 
tive or friend who had been charitably clutched 
off to a great blank barren Union House, as far 
from old home as the County Jail (the remote-~ 
ness of which is always its worst punishment for’ 


small rural offenders), and in its dietary, and in 
its lodging, and in its tending of the sick, a 
much more penal establishment. Sometimes she 
would hear a newspaper read out, and would 
learn how the Registrar-General cast up the units 
that had within the last week died of want and 
of exposure to the weather: for which that Re- 


224 


cording Angel seemed to have a regular fixed 


place in his sum, as if they were its half-pence. 
All such things she would hear discussed, as we, 
my lords and gentlemen and honorable boards, 
in our unapproachable magnificence never hear 
them, and from all such things she would fly 
with the wings of raging Despair. 

This is not to be received as a figure of speech. 
Old Betty Higden however tired, however foot- 
sore, would start up and be driven away by her 
awakened’ horror of falling into the hands of 

», Charity. It is a remarkable Christian improve- 

\yment, to have made a pursuing Fury of the 

1} Good Samaritan ; but it was so in this case, and 

jf it is a type of many, many, many. 

' ‘Two incidents united to intensify the old un- 
reasoning abhorrence — granted in a previous 
place to be unreasoning, because the people al- 
ways are unreasoning, and invariably make a 
point ot producing all their smoke without fire. 

One day she was sitting in a market-place on 
a bench outside an inn, with her little wares for 
sale, when the deadness that she strove against 
came over her so heavily that the scene depart- 
ed from before her eyes; when it returned, she 


found herself on the ground, her head supported, 


by some good-natured market-women, and a lit- 
tle crowd about her. 

‘‘Are you better now, mother?” asked one 
of the women. ‘‘Do you think you can do 
nicely now ?” . 

‘* Have I been ill then ?” asked old Betty. 

** You have had a faint like,” was the answer, 
“for a fit. It ain’t that you’ve been a-strug- 
gling, mother, but you’ve been stiff and numbed.”’ 

‘‘Ah?!” said Betty, recovering her memory. 
‘It’s the numbness. Yes. It comes over me 
at times.” 

‘Was it gone ?”’ the women asked her. 

‘*Tt’s gone now,” said Betty. ‘‘I shall be 
stronger than I was afore. Many thanks to ye, 
my dears, and when you come to be as old as I 
am, may others do as much for you!” 

They assisted her to rise, but she could not 
stand yet, and they supported her when she sat 
down again upon the bench. 

‘*My head’s a bit light, and my feet are a bit 
heavy,” said old Betty, leaning her face drowsi- 
ly on the breast of the woman who had spoken 
before. ‘*They’ll both come nat’ral in a min- 
ute. There’s nothing more the matter.” 

‘Ask her,” said some farmers standing by, 
who had come out from their market-dinner, 
‘“who belongs to her.” 

‘Are there any folks belonging to you, mo- 
ther ?” said the woman. 

“*Yes, sure,” answered Betty. ‘I heerd the 
gentleman say it, but I couldn’t answer quick 
enough. There’s plenty belonging tome. Don’t 
ye fear for me, my dear.” 

‘“But are any of ’em near here?” said the 
men's voices; the women’s voices chiming in 
when it was said, and prolonging the strain. 

“Quite near enough,” said Betty, rousing 
herself. ‘‘Don’t ye be afeard for me, neigh- 
bors.” 

‘*But you are not fit to travel. Where are 
you going ?”’ was the next compassionate chorus 
she heard. 

“Tm agoing to London when I’ve sold out 
all,” said Betty, rising with difficulty. ‘I’ve 
right good friends in Londun. I want for no- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | Be 


thing. I shall come to no harm. Thankye. 
Don’t ye be afeard for me.” 

A well-meaning by-stander, yellow-legringed 
and purple-faced, said hoarsely over his red 
comforter, as she rose to her feet, that she 
‘‘oughtn’t to be let to go.” 

‘**For the Lord’s love don’t meddle with me!” 
eried old Betty, all her fears crowding on her. 
**T am quite well now, and I must go this min- 
ute.” 

She caught up her basket as she spoke and 
was making an unsteady rush away from them, 
when the same by-stander checked her with his 
hand on her sleeve, and urged her to come with 
him and see the parish doctor. Strengthening 
herself by the utmost exercise of her resolution, 


the poor trembling creature shook him off, al- 


most fiercely, and took to flight. Nor did she 
feel safe until she had set a mile or two of by- 
road between herself and the market-place, and 
had crept into a copse, like a hunted animal, to 
hide and recover breath. Not until then for the 


first time did she venture to recall how she had . 
looked over her shoulder before turning out of’ 


the town, and had seen the sign of the White 
Lion hanging across the road, and the fluttering 
market booths, and the old gray church, and the 
little crowd gazing after her but not attempting 
to follow her. 


The-second frightening incident was this. She ~ 


had been again as bad, and had been for some 
days better, and was traveling along by a part 
of the road where it touched the river, and in 
wet seasons was so often overflowed by it that 
there were tall white posts set up to mark the 
way. A barge was being towed toward her, and 
she sat down on the bank to rest and watch it. 


As the tow-rope was slackened by a turn of the 


stream and dipped into the water, such a con- 
fusion stole into her mind that she thought she 
saw the forms of her dead children and dead 
grandchildren peopling the barge, and waving 
their hands to her in solemn measure; then, as 
the rope tightened and came up, dropping dia- 
monds, it seemed to vibrate into two parallel 
ropes and strike her, with a twang, though it 
was far off. When she looked again, there was 
no barge, no river, no daylight, and a man whom 
she had never before seen held a candle close 
to her face. 

‘Now, Missus,” said he; ‘where did you 
come from and where are you going to ?” 

The poor soul confusedly asked the counter- 
question where she was? | 

**T am the Lock,” said the man. 

‘<The Lock ?” 

**T am the Deputy Lock, on job, and this is 
the Lock-house, (Lock or Deputy Lock, it’s all 
one, while the t’other man’s in the hospital.) 
What’s your Parish?” 

*¢ Parish !” 
direetly, wildly feeling about her for her basket, 
and gazing at him in affright. 


‘You'll be asked the question down town,” 


said the man. ‘‘ They won’t let you be more 
than a Casual there. They'll pass you on to 
your settlement, Missis, with all speed. You're 


not in a state to be let come upon strange par- 


ishes ’ceptin as a Casual.” 
‘Twas the deadness again !”’ murmured Betty 
Higden, with her hand to her head. 


““It was the deadness, there’s not a doubt. 


She was up from the truckle-bed 


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about it,” returned the man. ‘I should have 
thought the deadness was a mild word for it, if 
it had been named to me when we brought you 
in. Have vou got any friends, Missis ?” 
: he 
The best of friends, Master.” 
Le should recommend your looking ‘em up if 
you consider ’em game to do any thing for you,” 
said the Deputy Lock. ‘ Have you got any 
- 99? 
money ? 
‘* Just a morsel of money, Sir.” 
“Do you want to keep it ?” 
*eSure I do!” 
66 id, 

Well, vou know,” said the Deputy Lock, 
shrugging his shoulders with his hands in’ his 
pockets, and shaking his head in a sulkily omin~ 
“ous manner, “the parish authorities downtown 

will have it out of you, if you go on, you. may 
| * + £ 7 ” 
take your Alfred Dayid. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


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‘¢Then I’ll not go on.” 

‘¢ They'll make you pay, as fur as your money 
will go,” pursued the Deputy, ‘‘for your reliefasa 
Gasual and for your being passed to your Parish.” 

‘¢Thank ye kindly, Master, for your warning, 
thank ye for your shelter, and good-night.” 

‘¢ Stop a bit,” said the Deputy, striking in be- 
tween her and the door. ‘ Why are you all of 
a shake, and what’s your hurry, Missis ?” 

‘Oh, Master, Master,” returned Betty Hig- 
den, ‘I've fought against the Parish and fled 
from it, all my life, and I want to die free of 
it!” 

‘‘T don’t know,” said the Deputy, with delib- 
eration, ‘‘as I ought to let you go. 1’m a hon- 
est man as gets my living by the sweat of my 
brow, and I may fall into trouble by letting you 
go. I’ve fell into trouble afore now, by George, 


225 


ee 


226 


and I know what it is, and it’s made me careful. 
You might be took with your deadness again, 
half a mile off—or half of half a quarter, for 
the matter of that—and then it would be asked, 
Why did that there honest Deputy Lock let her 
go, instead of putting her safe with the Parish ? 
That’s what a man of his character ought to 
have done, it would be argueyfied,” said the 
Deputy Lock, cunningly harping on the strong | 
string of her terror; ‘‘ he ought to have handed | 
her over safe to the Parish. ‘That was to be ex- 
pected of a man of his merits.” 

As he stood in the doorway the poor old care- 
worn wayworn woman burst into tears, and 
clasped her hands, as if in a very agony she 
prayed to him. 

“As [ve told you, Master, I’ve the best of 
friends. This letter will show how true I spoke, 
and they will be thankfy] for me.” 

The Deputy Lock opened the letter with a 
grave face, which underwent no cliange as he 
eyed its contents. But it might have done, if he 
could have read them. 

“What amount of small change, Missis,” he 
said, with an abstracted air, after a little medi- 
tation, ‘might you call a morsel of money ?” 

Hurriedly emptying her pocket, old Betty laid 
down on the table a shilling, and two sixpenny | 
pieces, and a few pence. 

‘Tf I was to let you go instead of handing 
you over safe to the Parish,” said the Deputy, 
counting the money with his eyes, ‘‘ might it be | 
your own free wish to leave that there behind 
rou?” 

“Take it, Master, take it, and welcome and 
thankful!” 

“I’m a man,” said the Deputy, giving her | 
back the letter, and pocketing the coins, one by 
one, ‘‘as earns his living by the sweat of his. 
brow ;” here he drew his sleeve across his fore- 
head, as if this particular portion of his humble 
gains were the result of sheer hard labor and 
virtuous industry; ‘“‘and [I won’t stand in your 
way. Go where you like.” 

She was gone out of the Lock-house as soon 
as he gave her this permission, and her tottering 
steps were on the road again. But, afraid to go 
back and afraid to go forward; secing what she 
fled from, in the sky-glare of the lights of the 
little town before her, and leaving a confused 
horror of it every where behind her, as if she 
had escaped it in every stone of every market- 
place; she struck off by side ways, among which 
she got bewildered and lost. That night she 
took refuge from the Samaritan in his latest ac- 
credited form, under a farmer’s rick; and if— 
worth thinking of, perhaps, my fellow-Chris- 
tians —the Samaritan had in the lonely night 
‘passed by on the other side,” she would have 
most devoutly thanked High Heaven for her es- 
eape from him. | 

The morning found her afoot again, but fast 
declining as to the clearness of her thoughts, 
though not as to the steadiness of her purpose. 
Comprehending that her strength was quitting 
her, and that the struggle of her life was al- 
most ended, she could neither reason out the 
means of getting back to her protectors, nor 
even form the idea. The overmastering dread, 
and the proud stubborn resolution it engendered 
in her to die undegraded, were the two distinct 
impressions left in her failing mind. Supported 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. _ 


only by a sense that she was bent on conquering 
in her life-long fight, she went on. ; 

The time was come now when the wants of 
this little life were passing away from her. She 
could not have swallowed food though a table 


had been spread for her in the next field. The 


day was cold and wet, but she scarcely knew it. 
She crept on, poor soul, like a criminal afraid 
of being taken, and felt little beyond the terror 
of falling down while it was yet daylight, and 
being found alive. She had no fear that she 
would live through another night. 

Sewn in the breast of her gown, the money to 
pay for her burial was still intact. If she could 
wear through the day, and then lie down to die 
under cover of the darkness, she would die in< 
dependent. If she were captured previously, | 
the money would be taken from her as a pauper 
who had no right to it, and she would be carried 
to the accursed work-house. Gaining her end, 
the letter would be found in her breast, along 
with the money, and the gentlefolks would say 
when it was given back to them, ‘She prized 


it, did old Betty Higden; she was true to it’; 


and while she lived she would never let it be 
disgraced by falling into the hands of those that 
she held in horror.” Most illogical, inconse- 
quential, and light-headed, this; but travelers 
in the valley of the shadow of death are apt to 


be light-headed ; and worn-out old people of low 


estate have a trick of reasoning as indifferently 
as they live, and doubtless would appreciate our 


of ten thousand a year. 

So, keeping to by-ways, and shunning human 
approach, this troublesome old woman hid her- 
self, and fared on all through the dreary day, 
Yet so unlike was she to vagrant hiders in gen- 
eral that sometimes, as the day advanced, there 
was a bright fire in her eyes, and a quicker beat- 


‘ing at her feeble heart, as though she said ex- 


ultingly, ‘‘ The Lord will see me through it!” 
By what visionary hands she was led along 
upon that journey of escape from the Samaritan 5 
by what voices, hushed in the grave, she seemed 
to be addressed; how she fancied the dead child 
in her arms again, and times innumerable ad- 
justed her shawl to keep it warm; what infinite 
variety of forms of tower and roof and steeple 
the trees took; how many furious horsemen rode 
at her, crying, ‘‘There she goes! Stop! Stop, 
Betty Higden!’”’ and melted away as they came 
close; be these things left untold. Faring on 
and hiding, hiding and faring on, the poor harm- 
less creature, as though she were a Murderess 
and the whole country were up after her, wore 
out the day and gained the night. . 


‘¢ Water-meadows, or such like,” she had some- — 


times murmured, on the day’s pilgrimage, when 
she had raised her head and taken any note of 
the real objects aboutjher. There now arose it 
the darkness a great building, full of lighted 
windows. Smoke was issuing from a high chim- 


ney in the rear of it, and there was the sound of - 


a water-wheel at the side. Between her and the 
building lay a piece of water, in which the light-” 
ed windows were reflected, and on its nearest 
margin was a plantation of trees.. ‘‘I humbly 


Poor Law more philosophically on an imcome 


‘ 
4 


! 


; 


} 
it 


§ 


4 


3 
: 
’ 
‘ 

t 
i 
L 


thank the Power and the Glory,” said Betty a 


Higden, holding up her withered hands, ‘‘ that 
I have come to my journey’s end!” 


She crept among the trees to the trunk of.a 


fi 


sh , } 
« bs 8 al \ % 
* om tale Bek 


tree whence she could see, beyond some inter- 
vening trees and branches, the lighted windows, 
‘both in their reality and their reflection in the 
water. She placed her ‘orderly little basket at 
her side, and sank upon the ground, supporting 
herself against the tree. . It brought to her mind 
the foot of the Cross, and she committed her- 
self to Him who died upon it. Her strength 
held out to enable her to arrange the letter in 
her breast, so as that it could be seen that she 
had a paper there. It had held out for this, 
and it departed when this was done. 

‘‘T am safe here,” was her last benumbed 
thought. ‘* When Iam found dead at the foot 
of the Cross it will be by some of my own sort ; 
- some of the working people who work among 
the lights yonder. I can not see the lighted 
windows now, but they are there. I am thank- 
ful for all!” 

* * * * Xe * 

The darkness gone, and a face bending 
down. 

**Tt can not be the boofer lady ?” 

“T don’t understand what you say. Let me 
wet your lips again with this brandy. TF have 
been away to fetch it. Did you think that I 
was long gone ?” 
dt is as the face of a woman, shaded by a 

quantity of rich dark hair. It is the earnest 
‘face of a woman who is young and handsome. 
But all is over with me on earth, and this must 
be an Angel. 

*‘ Have I been long dead ?” 

**T don’t understand what you say. Let me 
wet your lips again. I hurried all I could, and 
brought no one back with me, lest you should 
die of the shock of strangers.” ‘ 

**Am I not dead ?” 

-**T can not understand what you say. Your 
voice is so low and broken that Fcan not hear 
you. Do you hear me?” 

eves.” 

“Do you mean Yes?” 

patie Tag 

“T was.coming from my work just now, along 
the path outside (I was up with the night-hands 
last night), and I heard a groan, and found you 
lying here.” , 

** What work, deary ?” 

“‘Did you ask what work? At the paper- 
mill.” 

‘¢ Where is it ?” 

‘«Your face is turned up to the sky, and you 
can’t see it. It is close by. You can see‘my 
face, here, between you and the sky ?” 

ess” 

** Dare I lift you?” 

faNot yet.”: - 

** Not even lift your head to get it on my arm? 
I will do it by very gentle degrees, You shall 
hardly feel it.”’ 

* “Not yet. Paper. Letter.” 
_ “*This paper in your breast ?” 

**Bless ye!” 

- ‘*Yet me wet your lips again. 
it? ‘To read it ?” 

Bless ye!” . 

' She reads it with surprise, and looks down 
with, a new expression and an added interest on 
the motionless face she kneels beside. 

“TI know these names. I have heard them 


Am I to open 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘your lips again, and your forehead. 


227 


‘* Will you send it, my dear?” 
‘*f can not understand you. Let me wet 
There, 
These words 

‘* What was 


O poor thing, poor thing!” 
through her fast-dropping tears. 


}it that you asked me? Wait till I bring my 


ear quite close,” 

‘* Will you send it, my dear ?” 

‘Will I send it to the writers? Is that your 
wish? Yes, certainly.” “ 

‘You'll not give it up to any one but them ?” 

“No.” 

*“ As you must grow old in time, and come to 
your dying hour, my dear, you'll not give it up 
to any one but them ?” 

‘*No. Most solemnly.” 

‘Never to the Parish!” with a’ convulsed 
struggle. 

‘*No. Most solemnly.” 

‘*Nor let the Parish touch me, nor yet so 
much as look at me!” with another struggle. 

‘No. Faithfully.” 

A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the 
worn old face. The eyes, which have been dark- 
ly fixed upon the sky, turn with meaning in them 
toward the compassionate face from which the 
tears are dropping, and a smile is on the aged 
lips as they ask: 

‘‘ What is your name, my dear?” 

‘*My name is Lizzie Hexam.” 

‘‘T must be sore disfigured. Are you afraid 
to kiss me?” 

The answer is, the ready pressure of her lips 
upon the cold but smiling mouth. 

‘¢ Bless ye! Now lift me, my love.” 

Lizzie Hexam very softly raised the weather- 
stained gray head and lifted her as high as 
Heaven. 

pont Fe eS 


CHAPTER IX. 


SOMEBODY BECOMES THE SUBJECT OF A PRE- 
; DICTION. 


‘¢¢ Wr GIVE THEE HEARTY THANKS FOR THAT 
IT HATH PLEASED THEE TO DELIVER THIS OUR 
SISTER OUT OF THE MISERIES OF THIS SINFUL 
WorRLD.’”? So read the Reverend Frank Mil- 
vey in a not untroubled voice, for his heart mis- 
gave him that all was not quite right between 
us and our sister—or say our sister in Law— 
Poor Law—and that we sometimes read these 
words in an awful manner over our Sister and 
our Brother too. 

And Sloppy—on whom the brave deceased 
had never turned her back until she ran away 
from him, knowing that otherwise he would not 
be separated from her—Sloppy could not in his 
conscience as yet find the hearty thanks required 
of it. Selfish in Sloppy, and yet excusable, it 
may be humbly hoped, because our sister had 
been more than his mother. 

The words were read above the ashes of Betty 
Higden, in a corner of a church-yard near the 
river; in a church-yard so obscure that there 
was nothing in it but grass-mounds, not so much 
as one single tombstone. It might not be to do 
an unreasonably great deal for the diggers and 
hewers, in a registering age, if we ticketed their 
graves at the common charge; so that a new 
generation might know which was which: so 
that the soldier, sailor, emigrant, coming home, 


228 


should be able to identify. the resting-place of 
father, mother, playmate, or betrothed. For | 
we turn up our eyes and say that we are all | 
like in death, and we might turn them down 
nd work the saying out in this world, so far, 
t would be sentimental, perhaps? But how 
Hs.y ye, my lords and gentlemen and honorable 
boards, shall we not find good standing-room left 
{ra little sentiment, if we look into our crowds ? 

Near unto the Reverend Frank Milvey as he 
read stood his little wife, John Rokesmith the 
Secretary, and Bella Wilfer. These, over and 
above Sloppy, were the mourners at the lowly 
grave. Not a penny had been added to the 
money sewn in her dress: what her honest 
spirit had so long projected was fulfilled. 

‘‘T’ye todk it in my head,” said Sloppy, lay- 
ing it, inconsolable, against the church door, 
when all was done: ‘I’ve took it in my wretch- 
ed head that I might have sometimes turned a 
little harder for her, and it cuts me deep to think 
so now.” 

The Reverend Frank Milvey, comforting 
Sloppy, expounded. to him how the best of us 
were more or less remiss in our turnings at our 
respective Mangles—some of us very much so— 
and how we were all a halting, failing, feeble, 
and inconstant crew. 

‘She warn’t, Sir,” said Sloppy, taking this 


ghostly counsel rather ill, in behalf of his late 
benefactress. ‘‘ Let us speak for ourselves, Sir. 
She went through with whatever duty she had 
to do. She went through with me, she went 
through with the Minders, she went through 
with herself; she went through with every think. 
O Mrs. Higden, Mrs. Higden, you was a wo- 
man and a mother and a mangler in a million 
million !” 

With those heart-felt words Sloppy removed 
his dejected head from the church door, and 
took it back to the grave in the corner, and laid 
it down there, and wept alone. ‘‘ Not a very 
poor grave,” said the Reverend Frank Milvey, 
brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘‘ when it has 
that homely figure on it. Richer, I think, than 
it could be made by most of the sculpture in 
Westminster Abbey !” 

They left him undisturbed and passed out at 
the wicket-gate. The water-wheel of the paper- 
-mill was audible there, and seemed to have a. 
softening influence on the bright wintry scene. 
They had arrived but a little while before, and 
Lizzie Hexam now told them the little she could 
add to the letter in which she had inclosed Mr, 
Rokesmith’s letter and had asked for their in- 
structions. ‘This was merely how she had heard 
the groan, and what had afterward passed, and 
how she had obtained leave for the remains 
to be placed in that sweet, fresh, empty store- 
room of the mill from which they had just 
accompanied them to the church-yard, and 
how the last requests had been religiously ob- 

served, 

‘6T could not have done it all, or nearly all, 
of myself,” said Lizzie. ‘‘I should not have 
wanted the will; but I should not have had the 
power, without our managing partner,” 

‘‘Surely not the Jew who received us?” said 
Mrs. Milvey. 

(‘« My dear,” observed her husband in paren- 
thesis, ‘‘ why not ?’’) 

‘‘The gentlemanscertainly is a Jew,” said 


favorable. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. , 


Lizzie, ‘and the Lady, his wife, is a Jéwess, 
and I was first brought to their notice by a Jew. 
But I think there can not be kinder people in 
the world.” 

‘¢But suppose they try to convert you!” sug- 
gested Mrs. Milvey, bristling in her good little 
way, as a clergyman’s wife, 

‘*To do what, ma’am ?” asked Lizzie, with a 
modest smile. 

“To make you change your religion,” said 
Mrs. Milvey. 

Lizzie shock her head, still smiling. ‘*' They 
have never asked me what my religionis. They 
asked me what my story was, and I told them, 
‘They asked me to be industrious and faithful, 
and I promised to be so.. They most willingly 
and cheerfully do their duty to all of us who are 
employed here, and we try to do ours to them. 
Indeed they do much more than their duty to 
us, for they are wonderfully mindful of us in 
many ways.” 

‘‘It is easy to see you're a favorite, my dear,” 
said little Mrs. Milvey, not quite pleased. 

‘It would be very ungrateful in me to say I 
am not,” returned Lizzie, ‘‘for I have been al- 
ready raised to a place of confidence here. But 
that makes no difference in their following their 
own religion and leaving allofustoours. They 
never talk of theirs to us, and they never talk 
of ours tous. If I was the last in the mill it 
would be just the same. They never asked me 
what religion that poor thing had followed.” 

‘‘My dear,” said Mrs. Milvey, aside to the 
Reverend Frank, ‘‘I wish you would talk to 
her.7 

‘‘My dear,” said the Reverend Frank aside 
to his good little wife, ‘¢ I think I will leaye it to 
somebody else. The circumstances are hardly 
There are plenty of talkers going 
about, my love, and she will soon find one.” 


c 


While this discourse was interchanging, both 


Bella and the Secretary observed Lizzie Hexam, 
with great attention. Brought face to face for 
the first time with the daughter of his supposed 
murderer, it was natural that John Harmon 
should have his own secret reasons for’a careful 
scrutiny of her countenance and manner. Bella 
knew that Lizzie’s father had been falsely ae- 
cused of the crime which had had so great an 
influence on her own life and fortunes; and her- 
interest, though it had no secret springs, like 
that of the Secretary, was equally natural. Both 
had expected to see something very different 
from the real Lizzie Hexam, and thus it fell out 
that she became the unconscious means of bring- 
ing them together. 

For, when they had walked on with her to the 


little house in the clean .village by the paper- — 


mill, where Lizzie had a lodging with an elder- 
ly couple employed in the establishment, and 
when Mrs. Milvey and Bella had been up to see 
her room and had come down, the mill bell 
rang. This called Lizzie away for the time, 
and left the Secretary and Bella standing rather 
awkwardly in the small street; Mrs. Milvey 
being engaged in pursuing the village children, 


/and her investigations whether they were in 


danger of becoming children of Jsrac}; and the 
Reverend Frank being engaged—to say the truth > 
—in evading that branch of his spiritual fone- 
tions, and getting out of sight surreptitiously. 
Bella at length said: ; 


Pye” 
Laqun 


Se 


tS: 


if 


ue 
| 
P 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


-“Hadn’t we better talk about the commission 
we have undertaken, Mr. Rokesmith ?” 

‘*By all means,” said the Secretary. 

*‘T suppose,” faltered Bella, ‘‘that we are 
both commissioned, or we shouldn’t both be 
here ?” fs 
_ I suppose so,” was the Secretary’s answer. 

‘¢ When I'proposed to come with Mr. and Mrs. 
Milvey,” said*Bella, ‘‘ Mrs. Boffin urged me to 

- do so, in order that I might give her my small 
report—it’s not worth any thing, Mr. Rokesmith, 
except for it’s being a woman’s—which indeed 
with you may be a fresh reason for it’s being 
worth nothing—of Lizzie Hexam,” 

“Mr. Boffin,” said the Secretary, ‘‘ directed 
me to come for the same purpose.” __ 

As they spoke they were leaving the little 
street and emerging on the wooded landscape by 
the river. 

_ “You think well of her, Mr. Rokesmith ?” 

- pursued Bella, conscious of making all the ad- 
vances. : 

*¢T think highly of her.” 

**T am so glad of that! Something quite re- 


_ fined in her beauty, is there not ?” 


‘‘ Her appearance is very striking.” 

‘¢There is a shade of sadness upon her that is 
quite touching. At least I—I am not setting up 
my own poor opinion, you know, Mr. Roke- 
smith,” said Bella, excusing and explaining her- 
self in a pretty shy way; ‘‘I am consulting 

ou.” j 

‘*T noticed that sadness. I hope it may not,” 
said the Secretary in a lower voice, ‘‘be the re- 
sult of the false accusation which has been re- 
tracted.” . 

When they had passed on a little further with- 


out speaking, Bella, after stealing a glance or | 


two at the Secretary, suddenly said: ~ 

‘¢Oh, Mr. Rokesmith, don’t be hard with me, 
don’t be stern with me; be magnanimous! I 
want to talk with you on equal terms.” 


The Secretary as suddenly brightened, and. 


“returned: ‘‘Upon my honor I had no thought 
but for you. I forced myself to be constrained, 


lest you might misinterpret my being more natu- | 


ral. There. It’s gone.” 
‘Thank you,” said Bella, holding out her lit- 
tle hand. ‘Forgive me.” | 
“No!” cried the Secretary, eagerly. ‘‘ For- 
give me!” For there were tears in her eyes, 
and they were prettier in his sight (though they 
smote him on the heart rather reproachfully 
too) than any other glitter in the world. 
When they had walked a little further : 
" ‘You were going to speak to me,” said the 
Secretary, with the shadow so long on him quite 


thrown off and cast away, ‘‘ about Lizzie Hex- 


-am. . So wasI going to speak to you, if I could 
have begun.” 
‘Now that you can begin, Sir,” returned Bel- 
la, with a look as if she italicized the word by 
putting one of her dimples under it, ‘‘ what were 
- you going to say ?” 
~ **You remember, of course, that in her short 
~Jetter to Mrs. Boffin—short, but containing ev- 
ery thing to the purpose—she stipulated that 
~ either her name, or else her place of residence, 
‘must be kept strictly a secret among us.” 
~ Bella nodded Yes. 
“‘Tt is my duty to find out why she made that 
stipulation. I have it in charge from Mr. Boffin 


229 


to discover, and I am very desirous for myself 
to discover, whether that retracted accusation 
still leaves any stain upon her. I mean whether 
it places her at any disadvantage tow 
one, even toward herself.” 
r 6 Yes,” said Bella, nodding thoughtfully ; “eT 
understand. That seems wise and considerate.” 
‘*You may not have noticed, Miss Wilfer. that 
| she has the same kind of interest in you thatvou 
'have in her. Just as you are attracted by her 
beaut— by her appearance and manner, she is 
attracted by yours.” 

**T certainly have not noticed it,” returned 
Bella, again italicizing with the dimple, ‘and I 
should have given her credit for—” 

The Secretary with a smile held up his hand, 
so plainly interposing ‘‘ not for better taste” that 
Bella’s color deepened over the little piece of 
coquetry she was checked in. 

‘* And so,” resumed the Secretary, ‘‘if you 
would speak with her alone before we go away 
from here, I feel quite sure that a natural and 
easy confidence would arise between you. Of 
course you would not be asked to betray it; and 
of course you would not, if you were. But if 
you do not object to put this question to her—to 
ascertain for us her own feeling in this one matter 
—you can do so at a far greater advantage than I 
or any élse could. Mr. Boffin is anxious on the 
subject. And I am,” added the Secretary after 
a moment, ‘‘for a special reason, very anxious.” 

‘‘T shall be happy, Mr. Rokesmith,” returned 
Bella, to be of the least use ; for I feel, after the 
serious scene of to-day, that Iam useless enough 
in this world.” 

‘*Don’t say that,” urged the Secretary. 

‘Oh, but I mean that,” said Bella, raising 
her eyebrows. 

‘“No one is useless in this world,” retorted the 
Secretary, ‘‘who lightens the burden of it for 
any one else.” 

‘¢ But I assure you I don’t, Mr. Rokesmith,” 
said Bella, half crying. 

‘*Not for your father ?” 

‘¢ Dear, loving, self-forgetting, easily-satisfied 
Pa! Ohyes! He thinks so.” 

‘It is enough if he only thinks so,” said the 
Secretary. ‘‘ Excuse the interruption: I don’t 
like to hear you depreciate yourself.” 

“But you once depreciated me, Sir,” thought 
Bella, pouting, “‘and I hope you-may be satis- 
fied with the consequences you brought upon 
your head!” However, she said nothing to that 
purpose ; she even said something to a different 
purpose. 

‘¢ Mr. Rokesmith, it seems so long since we 
spoke together naturally, that I am embarrassed 
in approaching another subject. Mr. Boffin. 
You know I am very grateful to him; don’t 
you? You know I feel a true respect for him, 
and am bound to him by the strong ties of his 
own generosity ; now don’t you ?” 

‘Unquestionably. And also that you are his 
favorite companion,” 

‘That makes it,” said Bella, ‘‘so very diffi- 
cult to speak of him. But— Does he treat 
| you well?” 

‘¢ Youn see how he treats me,” the Secretary 
answered, with a patient and yet proud air. 

‘‘Yes, and I see it with pain,” said Bella, 
very energetically. ; 

The Secretary gave her such a radiant look, 


ard any 


= 


230 


that if he had thanked her a hundred times he 
could not have said as much as the look said. 
“‘T see it with pain,”’ repeated Bella, ‘‘and it 
often makes me miserable. Miserable, because 
I can not bear to be supposed to approve of it, 
or have any indirect share in it, Miserable, be- 


‘cause-Ican_not bear to be forced to admit to 


myself that Fortune is spoiling Mr.Boffin.” 

‘¢ Miss Wilfer,”’ said the Secretary, with a 
beaming face, ‘‘if you could know with what 
delight I make the discovery that Fortune is not 
spoiling you, you would know that it more than 
compensates me for any slight at any other 
hands.” 

“Qh, don’t speak of me,” said Bella, giving 
herself an impatient little slap with her glove. 
**You don’t know me as well as—” 

“* As vou know yourself?” suggested the Sec- 
retary, finding that stopped. ‘* Do you know 
yourselt ?”’ 

*‘T know quite enough of myself,” said Bella, 
with a charming air of being inclined to give 
herself up as a bad job, ‘‘and I don’t improve 
upon acquaintance. But Mr. Boffin.” 

**’That Mr. Boffin’s.manner to me, or consid- 
eration for me, is not what it used to be,” ob- 
served the Secretary, ‘‘ must be admitted. It 
is too plain to be denied.” 

‘* Are you disposed to deny it, Mr. Roke- 
smith ?” asked Bella, with a look of wonder. 

**Ought I not to be glad to do so, if I could; 
though it were only for my own sake ?” 

‘“*Truly,” returned Bella, ‘it must try you 
very much, and—you must please promise me 
that you won’t take ill what I am going to add, 
Mr. Rokesmith ?” 

**J promise it with all my heart.” 

**_ And it must sometimes, I should think,” 
said Bella, hesitating, ‘“‘a little lower you in 
your own estimation ?” 

Assenting with a movement of his head, 
though not at all looking as if it did, the Secre- 
tary replied: 

‘*T have very strong reasons, Miss Wilfer, for 
bearing with the drawbacks of my position in 
the house we both inhabit. Believe that they 
are not all mercenary, although I have, through 
a series of strange fatalities, faded out of my 
place in life. If what you see with such a 
gracious and good sympathy is calculated to 
rouse my pride, there are other considerations 
(and those you do not see) urging me to quiet 
endurance. ‘The latter are by far the stron- 

er.”? 

‘I think I have noticed, Mr. Rokesmith,” 


said Bella, looking at him with curiosity, as not | 


quite making him out, ‘‘that you repress your- 
self, and force yourself, to act a passive part.”’ 

**You are right. I repress myself and force 
myself to act a part. It is not in tameness of 
spirit that I submit. I have a settled purpose.” 

** And a good one, I hope,” said Bella. 

‘*And a good one, I hope,” he ,answered, 
looking steadily at her. 

‘‘Sometimes I have fancied, Sir,” said Bella, 
turning away her eyes, ‘‘that your great regard 
for Mrs. Boffin is a very powerful motive with 
you.” 

“You are right again; it is. I would do any 
thing for her, bear any thing for her. There 
are no words to express how I esteem that good, 
good woman,” ~ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ~ 


‘*As I do too! MayI ask you one thing 
more, Mr. Rokesmith ?” Ne a8 

‘‘Any thing more.” 

‘*Of course you see that she really suffers 
when Mr. Boffin shows how he is changing ?” 

‘*T see it, every day, as you see it, and am 
grieved to give her pain.” , 

“To give her pain?” said Bella, repeating 
the phrase quickly, with her eyebrows raised. 

‘‘T am generally the unfortunate cause of it.” 

‘Perhaps she says to you, as she often says 
to me, that he is the best of men, in spite of 
all.” i 

*“T often overhear her, in her honest and 
beautiful devotion to him, saying so to you,” 
returned the Secretary, with the same steady 
look, “ but I can not assert that she ever’says so 
to me.” 

Bella met the steady look for a moment with 
a wistful, musing little look of her own, and 
‘then, nodding her pretty head several times, like 
a dimpled philosopher (of the very best school) 
who was moralizing on Life, heaved a little sigh, 
and gave up things in general for a bad job, as 
she had previously been inclined to give up her 
self. 

But for all that they had a very pleasant 
walk. The trees were bare of leaves, and the 
river was bare of water-lilies; but the sky was 
not bare of its beautiful blue, and the water re-— 
flected it, and a delicious wind ran with the 
stream, touching the surface crisply. Perhaps 
the old mirror was never yet made by human 
hands, which, if all the images it has in its time 
reflected could pass across its surface again, 
would fail to reveal sone scene of horror or dis- ~ 
jtress, But the great serene mirror of the river 
seemed as if it might have reproduced all it had 
ever reflected between those placid banks, and 
brought nothing to the light save what was 
peaceful, pastoral, and blooming. 

So, they walked, speaking of the newly filled- 
up grave, and of Johnny, and of many things. 
So, on their return, they met brisk Mrs. Milvey — 
coming to seek them, with the agreeable intelli- 
gence that there was no fear for the village— 
children, there being a Christian school in the 
village, and no worse Judaical interference with ~ 
it than to plant its garden. So, they got back: 
to the village as Lizzie Hexam was coming from 
the paper-mill, and Bella detached herself to 
speak with her in her own home. 

‘**T am afraid it is a poor room for you,” said - 
Lizzie, with a smile of welcome, as she offered - 
the post of honor by the fireside. 

‘* Not so poor as you think, my dear,” returned 
Bella, ‘‘if you knew all.” Indeed, though at-— 
tained by some wonderful winding narrow stairs, 
which seemed to have been erected in a pure 
white chimney, and though very low in the ceil- 
ing, and very rugged in the floor, and rather 
blinking as to the proportions of its lattice win- — 
dow, it was a pleasanter room than that despised 
chamber once at home, in which Bella had first ~ 
bemoaned the miseries of taking lodgers. 

The day was closing as the two girls looked 
at one another by the fireside. The dusky room 
was lighted by the fire. The grate might have 
| been the old brazier, and the glow might haye 
| been the old hollow down by the flare. | 

‘*Tt’s quite new to me,” said Lizzie, ‘*to be 
visited by a lady so nearly of my own age, and 


* 


so pretty, as you. It’s a pleasure to me to look 
“at you.” 
_ J have nothing left to begin with,” returned 
Bella, blushing, ‘‘ because I was going to say 
that it was a pleasure to me to look at you, Liz- 
_ iz, But we can begin without a beginning, 
ean’t we ?” : 

Lizzie took the pretty little hand that was held 
out in as pretty a little frankness. 

- “* Now, dear,” said Bella, drawing her chair 
a little nearer, and taking Lizzie’s arm as if 
they were going out for a walk, ‘‘I am com- 
missioned with something to say, and I dare say 
I shall say it wrong, but I won’t if I can help 
it: It is in reference to your letter to Mr. and 
Mrs. Boffin, and this is what it is. Let me see. 
Oh yes! This is what it is.” 

With this exordium Bella set forth that re- 
quest of Lizzie’s touching secrecy, and delicately 
spoke of that false accusation and its retracta- 
tion, and asked might she beg to be informed 
whether it had any bearing, near or remote, on 
such request. ‘I feel, my dear,” said Bella, 
quite amazing herself by the business-like man- 
ner in which she was getting on, ‘‘ that the sub- 
ject must be a painful one to you, but I am 
mixed up in it also; for—I don’t know whether 
you may know it or suspect it—I am the willed- 
away girl who was to have been married to the 
unfortunate gentleman, if he had been pleased to 
approve of me. So I was dragged into the sub- 
ject without my consent, and you were dragged 
into it without your consent, and there is very 
little to choose between us.” 

**{¥ had no doubt,” said Lizzie, ‘‘that you 
were the Miss Wilfer I have often heard named. 
Can you tell me who my unknown friend is?” 

* Unknown friend, my dear?” said Bella. 

** Who caused the charge against poor father 
to be contradicted, and sent me the written 
paper.” 

Bella had never heard of him. 
tion who he was. 

' **T should have been glad to thank him,” re- 
turned Lizzie. ‘‘ He has done a great deal for 
me. I must hope that he will let me thank him 
some day. You asked me has it any thing to 
do—” 

‘‘It or the accusation itself,” Bella put in. 

**Yes. Has either any thing to do with my 
wishing to live quite secret andretired here? No.” 

As Lizzie Hexam shook her head in giving 
this reply and as her glance sought the fire, there 
was a quiet resolution in her folded hands, not 
lost on Bella’s bright eyes. 

** Have you lived much alone ?”’ asked Bella. 

' Yes, It’s nothing new to me. I used to be 
always alone many hours together, in the day 
and in the night, when poor father was alive.” 

“You have a brother, I have been told.” 

‘*I have a brother, but he is not friendly with 
me. He is a very good boy though, and has 
raised himself by his industry. I don’t complain 
of him.’’ 

_ As she said it, with her eyes upon the fire- 

_ glow, there was an instantaneous escape of dis- 
tress into her face. Bella scized the moment to 
touch her hand. 

—  “izzie, 1 .xh you would tell me whether 
you have :ny friend of your own sex and age.” 

‘‘T have lived that lonely kind of life that I 
have never had one,” was the answer. 


Had no no- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Do you think you could? 


231 


“‘Nor I neither,” said Bella. ‘‘ Not that my 
life has been lonely, for I could have sometimes 
wished it lonelier, instead of having Ma going 
on like the Tragic Muse with a face-ache in 
majestic corners, and Lavvy being spiteful— 
though. of course I am very fond of them both. 
I wish you could make a friend of me, Lizzie, 
I have no more of 
what they call character, my dear, than a cana- 
ry-bird, but I know I am trust-worthy,” 

The wayward, playful, affectionate nature, 
giddy for want of the weight of some sustaining 
purpose, and capricious because it was always 
fluttering among little things, was yet a capti- 
vating one. To Lizzie it was so new, so pretty, 
at once so womanly and so childish, that it won 
her completely. And when Bella said again, 
‘*Do you think you could, Lizzie?” with her 
eyebrows raised, her head inquiringly on one 
side, and an odd doubt about it in her own bo- 
som, Lizzie showed beyond all question that she 
thought she could. 

‘“Tell me, my dear,” said Bella, “‘ what is the 
matter, and why you live like this.” 

Lizzie presently began, by way of prelude, 
“You must. have many lovers—” when Bella 
checked her with a little scream of astonish- 
ment. 

‘¢ My dear, I haven’t one.” 

** Not one?” 

‘Well! Perhaps one,” said Bella. ‘I am 
sure I don’t know. I had one, but what he may 
think about it at the present time I can’t say. 
Perhaps I have half a one (of course I don’t 
count that Idiot, George Sampson). However, 
never mind me. I want to hear about you.” 

‘*There is a certain man,” said Lizzie, ‘‘a 
passionate and angry man, who says he loves 
me, and who I must believe does love me. He 
is the friend of my brother. I shrank from him 
within myself when my brother first brought him 
to me; but the last time I saw him he terrified 
me more than I can say.” There she stopped. 

‘‘Did you come here to escape from him, 
Lizzie ?” 

‘‘T came here immediately after he so alarm- 
ed me.” 

‘¢ Are you afraid of him here?” 

‘‘T am not timid generally, but I am always 
afraid of him, I am afraid to see a newspaper, 
or to hear a word spoken of what is done in 
London, lest he should have done some violence.” 

“Then you are not afraid of him for yourself, 
dear?” said Bella, after pondering on the words. 

‘‘T should be even that, if I met him about 
here. I look round for him always, as I pass to 
and fro at night.” . 

‘‘ Are you afraid of any thing he may do to 
himself in London, my dear?” 

‘‘No. He might be fierce enough even to do 
some violence to himself, but I don’t think of 
that.” ines: 
‘Then it would almost seem, dear,” said 
Bella, quaintly, ‘‘as if there must be somebody 
else ?”” 

Lizzie put her hands before her face for a 
moment before replying: ‘‘‘The words are al- 
ways in my ears, and the blow he struck upon a 
stone-wall as he said them is always befure my 
eyes. I have tried hard to think it not worth 
remembering, but I can not make so little of it. 
His hand was trickling down with blood as he 


232 


said to me, ‘Then I hope that I may never kill 
him!” ' | 
Rather startled; Bella made and clasped a gir- 
dle of her arms round Lizzie’s waist, and then 
asked quictly, in a soft voice, as they both looked 
at the fire: | 

“Kill him! Is this man so jealous, then ?” 

“Of a gentleman,” said Lizzie. | ‘‘ —I hardly 
know how to tell you—of a gentleman far above 
me and my way of life, who broke father’s death 
to me, and has shown an interest in me since.” 

‘** Does he love you ?” 

Lizzie shook her head. 

‘* Does he admire you?” 

Lizzie ceased to shake her head, and pressed 
her hand upon her living girdle. 

‘Is it through his influence that you came 
here ?” 

“Ono! And of all the world I wouldn’t have 
him know that I am here, or get the least clew 
where to find me.” 

** Lizzie, dear! Why?” asked Bella, in amaze- 
Ment at this burst. But then quickly added, 
reading Lizzie’s face: “No. Don't say why. 
That was a foolish question of mine. I see, I 
see.” . 

There was silence between them. Lizzie, 
with a drooping head, glanced down at the glow 
in the fire where her first fancies had been nursed, 


and her first escape made from the grim life out: 


of which she had plucked her brother, foresee- 
ing her reward. 

“You know all now,” she said, raising her 
eyes to Bella’s. ‘There is nothing left ont. 
This is my reason for living secret here, with 
the aid of a good old man who is my true friend. 
For a short part of my life at home with father 
I knew of things—don’t ask me what—that I set 
my. face against, and tried to better. I don’t 
think I could have done more, then, without let- 
ting my hold on father go; but they sometimes 
lie heavy on my mind. By doing all for the 
best, I hope I may wear them out.” 

‘*And wear out too,” said Bella, soothingly, 
‘this weakness, Lizzie, in favor of one who is 
not worthy of it.” 

‘*No. I don’t want to wear that out,” was 
the flushed reply, “nor do I want to believe, 
nor do I believe, that he is not worthy of it. 
What should I gain by that, and how much 
should I lose!” 

Bella’s expressive little eyebrows remonstrated 
with the fire for some short time before she re- 
joined; 

**Don’t think that I press you, Lizzie; but 
wouldn’t you gain in peace, and hope, and even 
in freedom? Wouldn’t it be better not to live a 
secret life in hiding, and not to be shut out from 
your natural and wholesome prospects? For 
give my asking you, would that be no gain ?” 

** Does a woman’s heart that—that has that 
weakness in it which you have spoken of,” re- 
turned Lizzie, ‘‘seck to gain any thing?” 

The question was so directly at variance with 
Bella’s views in life, as set forth to her father, 
that she said, internally, ‘* There, you little mer- 
cenary wretch! Do you hear that? Ain’t you 


ashamed of yourself?” and unclasped the girdle. 


of her arms, expressly to give herself a peniten- 
tial poke in the side... ., 
“But you said, Lizzie,” observed Bella, re- 
turning to her sae ion she had administer- 
a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ed this chastisement, “that you would lose, be- 
sides. Would you mind teiling me what you 
would lose, Lizzie?” 3 

‘*T should lose some of the best recollections, 
best encouragements, and best objects, that I 
carry through my daily life. I should lose my 
belief that if I had been his equal, and he had 
loved me, I should have tried with all my might 
to make him better and happier, as he would 
have made me. I should lose almost all the 
value that I put upon the little learning I have, 
which is all owing’to him, and which I con- 
quered the difficulties of, that he might not 
think it thrown away upon me. I should lose 
a kind of picture of him—or of what he might 
have been, if I had been a lady, and he had 
loved me—which is always with me, and which 
I somehow feel that I could not do a mean ora 
wrong thing before. I should leave off prizing 
the remembrance that he has done me nothing 
but good since I have known him, and that he 
has made a change within me, like—like the 
change in the grain of these hands, which were 
coarse, and cracked, and hard, and brown when 
I rowed on the river with father, and are soft- 
ened and made supple by this new work as you 
see them now.” 

They trembled, but with no weakness, as she 
showed them. 

‘*Understand me, my dear;” thus she weng 
on. ‘I have never dreamed of the possibility 
of his being any thing to me on this earth but 
the kind of picture that I know I could not make 
you understand, if the understanding was not in 
your own breast already. I have no more dream- 
ed of the possibility of my being his wife than 
he ever has—and words could not be stronger 
than that. And yet I love him. I love him 
so much, and so dearly, that when I sometimes 
think my life may be but a weary one, I am 
proud of it and glad of it. Iam proud and glad 
to suffer something for him, even though it is 
of no service to him, and he will never know of 
it or care for it.” 3 

Bella sat enchained by the deep, unselfish 
passion of this girl or woman of her own age, 
courageously revealing itself in the confidence 
of her sympathetic perception of its truth. And 
yet she had never experienced any thing like it, 
or thought of the existence of any thing like it, 

‘*It was late upon a wretched night,” said 


Lizzie, ‘‘when his eyes first looked at me in my- 


old river-side home, very different from this. 
His eyes may never look at me again. I would 
rather that they never did; I hope that they 
never may. But I would not have the light of 
them taken out of my life for any thing my life 
can give me. . I have told you every thing now, 
my dear. If it comes a little strange to me to 
have parted with it, I am not sorry. I had no 
thought of ever parting with a single word of it 
a moment before you came in; but you came 
in, and my mind changed.” 

Bella kissed her on the cheek, and thanked 
her warmly for her confidence. 
said Bella, ‘‘I was more deserving of it.” 


‘* More deserving of it?” repeated Lizzie, with — 


an incredulous smile, 


‘J don’t mean in respect of x. »ing if, said 
Bella, ‘* because any one should tea. me to bits © 


before getting at a syllable of it—though there’s 
no merit in that, for I am naturally as obstinate 


‘“*T only wish,” 


| 
| 


3 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
as a Pig. What I mean is, Lizzie, that I am| 


a”’mere impertinent 
shame me.” 

Lizzie put up the pretty brown hair that came 
tumbling down, owing to the energy with which 
Bella shook her head; and she remonstrated 
while thus engaged, ‘‘ My dear!” ~ . 

** Oh, it’s all very well to call me your dear,” 
seid Bella, with a pettish whimper, ‘‘and I am 
glad to be called so, though I have slight enough 
elaim to be. But I am such a nasty little thing!” 

**My dear!” urged Lizzie again. 

“Such a shallow, cold, worldly, Limited lit- 
tle brute!” said Bella, bringing out her last ad- 

jective with culminating force. 

“Do you think,” inquired Lizzie with her 
quiet smile, the hair being now secured, ‘that 
I don’t know better ?” 

‘* Lo you know better though?” said Bella. 
_**Do you really believe you know better? Oh, 
I should be so glad if you did know better, but 
I am so very much afraid that I must know 

best !” 

Lizzie asked her, laughing outright, whether 
she ever saw her own face or heard her own 
voice ? 

“ I suppose so,” returned Bella; ‘I look inthe 
glass often enough, and I chatter like a Magpie.” 

“I have seen your face, and heard your voice, 
at any rate,” said Lizzie, ‘‘ and they have tempt- 
ed me to say to you—with a certainty of not 
going wrong—what I thought I should never 
gay toany one. Does that look ill ?” 

“No, I hope it doesn’t,” pouted Bella, stop- 
ping herself in something between a humored 
laugh and a humored sob. ~ 

‘*T used once to see pictures in the fire,” said 
Lizzie, playfully, ‘‘to please my brother. Shall 


piece of conceit, and you 


I tell you what I see down there where the fire | 


glowing?” 

They had risen, and were standing on the 
hearth, the time being come for separating ; 
‘each had drawn an arm around the other to 
take leave. 

_ “Shall [ tell you,” asked Lizzie, “what I 
see down there ?” 

“Limited little b?” suggested Bella with her 
eyebrows raised. 

‘*A heart well worth winning and well won. 
A heart that, once won, goes through fire and 
water for the winner, and never changes, and is 
never daunted,” 

**Girl’s heart ?” asked Bella, with ‘accompany- 
ing eyebrows. 

Lizzie nodded. 
belongs—” 

*<Ts yours,” suggested Bella, 

**No. Most clearly and distinctly yours.” 

So the interview terminated with pleasant 
words on both sides, and with many reminders 
on the part of Bella that they were friends, and 
pledges that she would soon come down into 
that part of the country again. Therewith Liz- 
zie returned to her occupation, and Bella ran 
over to the little inn to rejoin her company. 

‘* You look rather serious, Miss Wilfer,” was 
the Secretary’s first remark. 

“TJ feel rather serious,” returned Miss Wilfer. 

She had nothing else to tell him but that Liz- 
zve Hexam’s secret had no reference whatever to 
the cruel charge, or its withdrawal. Oh yes 
though! said Bella; she might as well mention 

5 


*¢ And the figure to which it 


A] 


ath “ 
ie), ¢ tx 
coe O 


233 


one other thing; Lizzie was very desirous to 
thank her unknown friend who had sent her the 
written retractation. Was she, indeed ? observed 
the Secretary. Ah! Bella asked him, had he 
any notion who that unknown friend might be ? 
He had no notion whatever. 

They were on the borders of Oxfordshire, so far 
had poor old Betty Higden strayed. They were 
to return by the train presently, and, the station 
being near at hand, the Reverend Frank and 
Mrs. Frank, and Sloppy and Bella and the Sec- 
retary, set out to walk to it. Few rustic paths 
are wide enough for five, and Bella and the 
Secretary dropped behind. 

**Can you believe, Mr. Rokesmith,” said Bella, 
“that I feel as if whole years had passed since [ 
went into Lizzie Hexam’s cottage ?” 
~ We have crowded a good deal into the day,” 
he returned, ‘and you were much affected in 
the church-yard. You are over-tired.” 

“No, I am not at all tired. I have not quite 
expressed what I mean. I don’t mean that I 
feel as if a great space of time had gone by, but 
that I feel as if much had happened—to myself, 
you know.” 

‘* For good, I hope?” 

‘*T hope so,”’ said Bella. 

“You are cold; I felt you tremble. Pray let 
me put this wrapper of mine about you. May F 
fold it over this shoulder without injuring your 
dress? Now, it will be too heavy and too long. 
Let me carry this end over my arm, as you have 
no arm to give me.” 

Yes she had though. How she got it out, im 
her muffled state, Heaven knows; but she got 
it out somehow—there it was—and slipped: it 
through the Secretary’s, 

‘‘T have had a long and interesting talk with 
Lizzie, Mr. Rokesmith, and she gave me her full 
confidence.” 

‘* She could not withhold it,” said the Secre- 
tary. 

‘‘f wonder how you come,” said Bella, stop- 
ping short as she glanced at him, “to say to me 
just what she said about it!” 

“J infer that it must be because I feel just as. 
she felt about it.” 

‘‘And how was that, do you mean to say,, 
Sir?” asked Bella, moving again. 

‘That if you were inclined to win her confi- 
dence—any body’s confidence—you were sure to 
do it.” 

The railway, at this point, knowingly shutting 
a green eye and opening a red one, they had to 
run for it. As Bella could not run easily so 
wrapped up, the Secretary had to help her. 
When she took her opposite place in the car- 
riage corner, the brightness in her face was so 
charming to behold, that on her exclaiming, 
‘“‘What beautiful stars and what a glorious 
night !” the Secretary said ‘‘Yes,” but seemed 
to prefer to see the night and the stars in the 
light of her lovely little countenance to looking 
out of window. 

O boofer lady, fascinating boofer lady! If I 
were but legally executor of Johnny’s will! If 
I had but the right to pay your legacy and to 
take your receipt!—Something to this purpose 
surely mingled with the blast of the train as it 
cleared the stations, all knowingly shutting up: 
their green eyes and opening their red ones when. 
they prepared to let the boofer lady pass. 


CHAPTER X. 


SCOUTS OUT. 


* Axnso, Miss Wren,” said Mr. Eugene Wray- 
burn, ‘‘I can not persuade you to dress me a 
doll?” 

‘‘No,” replied Miss Wren, snappishly ; fala 
you want one, go and buy one at the shop.” 

“ And my charming young coddaughter,” said 
Mr. Wrayburn, plaintively, ‘‘ down in Hertford- 
shire—”’ 

(<‘Humbugshire you mean, I think,” inter- 
posed Miss Wren. ) 

‘¢_is to be put upon the cold footing of the 
general public, and is to derive no advantage 
from my private acquaintance with the Court 
Dress-maker ?” 

‘¢Tf it’s any advantage to your charming god- 
child—and oh, a precious godfather she has 
got!” replied Miss Wren, pricking at him in the 
air with her needle, ‘‘to be informed that the 
@ourt Dress-maker knows your tricks and your 
manners, you may tell her so by post, with my 
compliments.” 

Miss Wren was busy at her work by candle- 
light, and Mr. Wrayburn, half amused and half 
vexed, and all idle and shiftless, stood by her 
bench looking on. Miss Wren’s troublesome 
child was in the corner in deep disgrace, and 
exhibiting great wretchedness in the shivering 
stage of prostration from drink. , 

‘‘Ugh, you disgraceful boy !” exclaimed Miss 
Wren, attracted by the sound of his chattering 
teeth, “I wish they’d all drop down your throat 
and play at dice in your stomach! Boh, wicked 
child! Bee-baa, black sheep!” 

On her accompanying each of these reproaches 
with a threatening stamp of the foot, the wretch- 
ed creature protested with a whine. 

‘Pay five shillings for you indeed!” Miss 
Wren proceeded; “how many hours do you 
suppose it costs me to earn five shillings, you in- 
famous boy ?—Don’t ery like that, or I'll throw 
a doll at you. Pay five shillings fine for you in- 
deed. Fine in more ways than one, I think! 
I'd give the dustman five shillings to carry you 
off in the dust cart.” 

‘‘No, no,” pleaded the 
“ Picase 1’. 

<‘ He’s enough to break his mother’s heart, is 
this boy,” said Miss Wren, half appealing to 
Eugene. ‘I wish I had never brought him up. 
He’d be: sharper than a serpent’s tooth, if he 
wasn’t as dull as ditch water. Look at him. 
There’s a pretty object for a parent’s eyes!” 

Assuredly, in his worse than swinish state (for 
swine at least fatten on their guzzling, and make 
themselves good to eat), he was a pretty object 
for any eyes. 

‘A muddling and a swipey old child,” said 
Miss Wren, rating him with great severity, ‘‘ fit 
for nothing but to be preserved in the liquor that 
destroys him, and put in a great glass bottle as 
a sight for other swipey children of his own pat- 
tern—if he has no consideration for his liver, has 
he none for his mother ?” 

‘Yes. Deration, oh don’t!” cried the sub- 
ject of these angry remarks. 

‘¢Oh don’t and oh don’t,” pursued Miss Wren. 

‘‘Tt’?s oh do and oh do. And why do you?” 

“¢Won’t do so any more. Won't indeed. 

Pray!” 


absurd creature. 


% 


eg ) BO han CUA net hes 8 ots Ze 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ——t*™” nyt 


‘¢'There!” said Miss Wren, covering her eyes 
with her hand. ‘‘I can’t bear to look at you. 
Go up stairs and get me my bonnet and shawl. 
Make yourself useful in some way, bad boy, and 
let me have your room instead of your company 
for one half minute.” | f 

Obeying her, he shambled out, and Eugene 
Wrayburn saw the tears exude from between 
the little creature’s fingers as she kept her hand 
before her eyes. He was sorry, but his sympa- 
thy did not moye his carelessness to do any thing 
but feel sorry. ; 

“J’m going to the Italian Opera to try on,” 
said Miss Wren, taking away her hand after @ 
little while, and laughing satirically to hide that 
she had been crying; ‘“‘I must see your back 
before I go, Mr. Wrayburn. .Let me first tell 
you, once for all, that it’s of no use your paying 
visits to me. You wouldn’t get what you want 
of me, no, not if you brought pincers with you 
to tear it out.” 

‘Are you so obstinate on the subject of a 
doll’s dress for my godchild ?” ait 

‘Ah !? returned Miss Wren, with a hitch of 
her chin, ‘I am so obstinate. And of course 
it’s on the subject of a doll’s dress—or address— 
whichever you like. Get along and give itup!” 

Her degraded charge had come back, and was — 
standing behind her with the bonnet and shawl. 

‘‘ Give ’em to me and get back into your cor- 
ner, you naughty old thing!” said Miss Wren, 
as she tured and espied him. ‘No, no, I 
won’t have your help. Go into your corner, 
this minute!” 

The miserable man, feebly rubbing the back 
of his faltering handstownward from the wrists, 
shuffled on to his post of disgrace; but not with- 
out a curious glance at Eugene in passing him, 
accompanied with ‘what seemed as if it might 
have been an action of his elbow, if any action 
of any limb or joint he had would have an- 
swered truly to his will, Taking no more par- 
ticular notice of him than instinctively falling 
away from the disagreeable contact, Eugene, 
with a lazy compliment or so to Miss Wren, 
begved leave to light his cigar, and departed. 

‘Now you prodigal old son,” said Jenny, 
shaking her head and her emphatic little fore- 
finger at her burden, ‘‘you sit there till I come ~ 
back. You dare to move out of your corner for 
a single instant while ’m gone, and Ill know 
the reason why.” - 

With this admonition she blew her work can 
dles out, leaving him to the light of the fire, and, — 
taking her big door-key in her pocket and her 
erntch-stick in her hand, marched off. a 

Eugene lounged slowly toward the Temple, ~ 
smoking his cigar, but saw no more of the dolls’ 
dress-maker, through the accident of their takmg _ 
opposite sides of the street. He lounged along 
moodily, and stopped at Charing, Cross to look 
about him, with as little interest in the crowd as / 
any man might take, and was lounging on again, — 
when a most unexpected object caught his eyes. 
No less an object than Jenny Wren’s bad boy 
trying to make up his mind to cross the road, # 

A more ridiculous and feeble spectacle than 
this tottering wretch making unsteady salli 3 
into the roadway, and as often staggering back 
again, oppressed by terrors of vehicles that we eo. 
a long way off or were nowhere, the streets could | 
not have shown. Over and over again, wh 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“the course was perfectly clear, he set out, got 
half-way, described a loop, turned, and went 
‘back again, when he might have crossed and re- 
crossed half a dozen times. Then he would 
stand shivering on the edge of the pavement, 
looking up the street and looking down, while 
scores of people jostled him, and crossed, and 
went on. Stimulated in course of time by the 
sight of so many successes, he would make an- 
other sally, make another loop, would all but 
have his foot on the opposite pavement, would 
see or imagine something coming, and would 
stagger back again. There, he would stand 
making spasmodic preparations as if for a great 
leap, and at last would decide on a start at pre- 
cisely the wrong moment, and would be roared 
at by drivers, and would shrink back once more, 
and stand in the old spot shivering, with the 
whole of the proceedings to go through again. 

“It strikes me,” remarked Eugene, coolly, 
after watching him for some minutes, ‘that my 
friend is likely to be rather behind time if he 
has any appointment on hand.” With which 
remark he strolled on, and. took no further 
thought of him, ( 

Lightwood was at home when he got to the 
Chambers, and had dined alone there. Eugene 
drew a chair to the fire by which he was having 
his wine and reading the evening paper, and 
brought a glass, and filled it for good fellow- 

-ship’s sake, 

** My dear Mortimer, you are the express pic- 
ture of contented industry, reposing (on credit) 
after the virtuous labors of the day.” 

‘“My dear Eugene, you are the express pic- 
ture of discontented idleness not reposing. at all. 
‘Where have you been?” 


‘*T have been,” replied Wrayburn, ‘‘—about 


town. Ihave turned up at the present juncture 
with the intention of consulting my highly intel- 
ligent and respected solicitor on the position of 
my affairs.” 

‘*Your highly intelligent and respected solic- 
itor is of opinion that your affairs are in a bad 
way, Eugene.” | 
' “Though whether,” said Eugene, thought- 
fully, “that can be intelligently said, now, of 
the affairs of a client who has nothing to lose 
and who can not possibly be made to pay, may 
be open to question.” 

‘You have fallen into the hands of the Jews, 
Eugene.” 

_ ““My dear boy,” returned the debtor, very 
composedly taking up his glass, ‘“‘having pre- 
viously fallen into the hands of some of the 
Christians, I can bear it with philosophy.” 

“I have had an interview to-day, Eugene, 
with a Jew, who seems determined to press us 
hard. Quite a Shylock, and quite a Patriarch. 
A picturesque gray-headed and gray-bearded old 
Jew, in a shovel-hat and gaberdine.” 

“Not,” said Eugene, pausing in setting down 
Mis glass, ‘surely not my worthy friend Mr. 
Aaron ?” 


_ ‘He calls himself Mr. Riah.” 


** By-the-by,” said Eugene, ‘it comes into 
‘my mind that—no doubt with an instinctive de- 


‘sire to receive him into the bosom of our Church 
—ZT gave him the name of Aaron!” 


“‘Hugene, Eugene,” returned Lightwood, ‘‘ you 
are more ridiculous than usual. Say what you 


mean.” 


ee 


235 


‘Merely, my dear fellow, that I have the 
honor and pleasure of a speaking acquaintance 
with such a Patriarch as you describe, and that 
T address him as Mr. Aaron, because it appears 
to me Hebraic, expressive, appropriate, and com- 
plimentary. Notwithstanding which stron g rea- 
sons for its being his name, it may not be his 
name.” 

‘*I believe you are the absurdest man on the 
face of the earth,” said Lightwood, laughing. 

**Not at all, I assure you. Did he mention 
that he knew me?” 

‘“‘He did not. He only said of you that he 
expected to be paid by you.” 

‘¢ Which looks,” remarked Eugene, with much 
gravity, ‘‘like not knowing me. I hope it may 
not be my worthy friend Mr. Aaron, for, to tell 
you the truth, Mortimer, I doubt he may have 
a prepossession against me. I strongly suspect 
him of having had a hand in spiriting away 
Lizzie.” 

‘Every thing,” returned Lightwood, impa- 
tiently, ‘seems, by a fatality, to bring us round 
to Lizzie. ‘About town’ meant about Lizzie, 
just now, Eugene.” 

‘*My solicitor, do you know,” observed Eu- 
gene, turning round to the furniture, ‘‘is a man 
of infinite discernment !” 

“*Did it not, Eugene?” 

‘*Yes it did, Mortimer.’’ 

“And yet, Eugene, you know you do not 
really care for her.” 

Eugene Wrayburn rose, and put his hands in 
his pockets, and stood with a foot on the fender, 
indolently rocking his body and looking at the 
fire. After a prolonged pause he replied: “I 
don’t know that. I must ask you not to say 
that, as if we took it for granted.” ; 

‘“But if you do care for her, so much the 
more should you leave her to herself.” 

Having again paused as before, Eugene said: 
‘“*{ don’t know that either. But tell me. Did 
you ever see me take so much trouble about any 
thing as about this disappearance of hers? [I 
ask, for information.” 

“My dear Eugene, I wish I ever had !” 

‘Then you have not? Just so. You con- 
firm my own impression. Does that look as if 
I cared for her? I ask, for information.” 

“T asked you for information, Eugene,” said 
Mortimer, reproachfully. : 

‘¢ Dear boy, I know it, but I can’t give it. I 
thirst for information. What do I mean? If 
my taking so much trouble to recover her does — 
not mean that I care for her, what does it mean ? 
‘If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper, 
where’s the peck,’ etc. ?” oad tritle 

Though he said this gayly, he said it with a 
perplexed and inquisitive face, as if he actually 
did not know what to make of himself. ‘‘ Look 
on to the end—” Lightwood was beginning to 
remonstrate, when he caught at the words: 

‘‘Ah! See now! That’s exactly what I am 
capable of doing. How very acute you are, 
Mortimer, in finding my weak place! When 
we were at school together I got up my lessons 
at the last moment, day by day and bit by bit; 
now we are out in life together, I get up my 


4 . ale 
lessons in the same way. In the present task I 


is: din 
have not got beyond this: I am bent on finding 
Lizzie, and I mean to find her, and I will take 
any means of finding her that offer themselves. 


236 


Fair means or foul means are all alike to me. 
I,ask you—for information — what does that 
mean? When I have found her I may ask you 
—also for information—what do I mean now? 
But it would be premature in this stage, and it’s 
not the character of my mind.” 

Lightwood was shaking his head over the air 
with which his friend held forth thus—an air so 
whimsically open and argumentative as almost 
to deprive what he said of the appearance of 
evasion—when a shuffling was heard at the out- 
er door, and then an undecided knock, as though 
some hand were groping for the knocker. ‘*'The 
frolicsome youth of the neighborhood,” said Eu- 
gene, ‘‘whom I should be delighted to pitch 
from this elevation into the church-yard below, 
without any intermediate ceremonies, have prob- 
ably turned the lamp out. I am on duty to- 
night, and will see to the door.” 

His friend had barely had time to recall the 
unprecedented gleam of determination with 
which he had spoken of finding this girl, and 
which had faded out of him with the breath of 
- the spoken words, when Eugene came «back, 
ushering in a most disgraceful shadow of a 
man, shaking from head to foot, and clothed in 
shabby grease and smear. 

‘This interesting gentleman,” said Eugene, 
<¢is the son—the occasionally rather trying son, 
for he has his failings—of a lady of my acquaint- 
ance, My dear Mortimer—Mr. Dolls.” Eugene 
had no idea what his name was, knowing the 
little dress-maker’s to be assumed, but present- 
ed him with easy confidence under the first ap- 
pellation that his associations suggested. 

‘‘] gather, my dear Mortimer,” pursued Eu- 
gene, as Lightwood stared at the obscene visitor, 
“from the manner of Mr. Dolls—which is oc- 
casionally complicated—that he desires to make 
some communication to me. I have mentioned 
to Mr. Dolls that you and [ are on terms of con- 
fidence, and have requested Mr. Dolls to devel- 
op his views here.” 

The wretched object being much embarrassed 
by holding what remained of hishat, Eugeneairily 
tossed it to the door and put him down in a chair. 

‘Tt will be necessary, I think,” he observed, 
‘to wind up Mr. Dolls before any thing to any 
mortal purpose can be got out of him. Brandy, 
Mr. Dolls, or—?” 

‘‘Threepenn’orth Rum,” said Mr. Dolls. 

A judiciously small quantity of the spirit was 
given him in a wine-glass, and he began to con- 
vey it to his mouth with all kinds of falterings 
and gyrations on the road. 

<“¢'T he nerves of Mr. Dolls,” remarked Eugene 
to Lightwood, ‘‘ are considerably unstrung. And 
I deem it on the whole expedient to fumigate 
Mr. Dolls.” 

He took the shovel from the grate, sprinkled 
a few live ashes on it, and from a box on the 
chimney-piece took a few pastiles, which he set 
upon them; then with great composure began 
placidly waving the shovel in front of Mr. Dolls 
to cut him off from his company. 

‘Tord bless my soul, Eugene!” cried Light- 
wood, laughing again, ‘what a mad fellow you 
are! Why does this creature come tosee you?” 

‘¢We shall hear,” said Wrayburn, very ob- 
servant of his face withal. ‘‘Nowthen. Speak 
out. Don’t be afraid. State your business, 
Dolls.” 


& 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. * 


and huskily. 
With a stupid stare. 


you want ?” 


you wouldn't. 
want t’know where she lives. Do you Mist 
Wrayburn ?” ; 
With a glance at his friend, Eugene replied to — 
the question sternly, ‘‘I do.” 


low voice, as he complied. ‘can you stoop to 
the use of such an instrument as this?” 


mer gleam of determination, ‘‘that I would 
find her out by any means, fair or foul. These 
are foul, and I’ll take them—if I am not first 
tempted to break the head of Mr. Dolls with the | 
fumigator. 1 
you mean that? Speak! If that’s what you 


pieces of himself while he tried in vain to pick 


‘‘Mist Wrayburn!” said the visitor, thickly 
‘s_’ Tis Mist Wrayburn, ain’t?” - 


“Of course it is. Look at me. What do 


Mr. Dolls collapsed in his chair and faintly 


said, ‘‘ Threepenn’orth Rum.” 


‘¢Will you do me the favor, my dear Mor- 


timer, to wind up Mr. Dolls again?” said Eu- 
gene. 


‘‘T am occupied with the fumigation.” 
A similar quantity was poured into his glass, 


and he got it to his lips by similar circuitous 
ways. 
evident fear of running down again unless he 
made haste, proceeded to business. 


Having drunk it, Mr. Dolls, with an | 


“ Mist Wrayburn. 
You want that drection. 


Tried to nudge you, but 
You 


‘“T am er man,” said Mr. Dolls, trying to 


smite himself on the breast, but bringing his 
hand to bear upon the vicinity of his eye, “‘er 
do it. 


I am er man er do it.” 
‘What are you the man to do?” demanded 


Eugene, still sternly. 


‘<Er give up that drection.” 
‘¢Have you got it?”» 
With a most laborious attempt at pride and 


dignity, Mr. Dolls rolled his head for some time, — 
awakening the highest expectations, and then | 
answered, as if it were the happiest point that 
could possibly be expected of him: “No.” 


«What do you mean then ?” 
Mr. Dolls, collapsing in the drowsiest man- — 
4 


ner after his late intellectual triumph, replied: 


‘¢Threepenn’orth Rum.” 
‘¢ Wind him up again, my dear Mortimer,” 


said Wrayburn; ‘‘wind him up again>’ § 


‘‘Kugene, Eugene,” urged Lightwood in a 


“TJ said,” was the reply, made with that for- 


Can vou get the direction? Do 


have come for, say how much you want.”’ q 
“Ten shillings—Threepenn’orths Rum,” said 7 
Mr. Dolls. a 

“¢You shall have it.” 

‘¢Bifteen shillings — Threepenn’orths Rum,” 
said Mr. Dolls, making an attempt to stiffen 
himself. 5 

‘‘You shall have it. Stopatthat. How will 7 
you get the direction you talk of ?” ¥ 

‘‘T am er man,” said Mr. Dolls, with majesty, — 
“er get it, Sir.” 

‘How will you get it, I ask you?” 

‘¢T am ill-used vidual,” said Mr. Dolls. | 
‘Blown up morning t’night. Called names. 
She makes Mint money, Sir, and never stands © 
Threepenn’orth Rum.” : ae 

“Get on,” rejoined Eugene, tapping his pal- 
sied head with the fire-shovel as it sank on his_ 
breast. ‘* What comes next?” °° a, 

Making a dignified attempt to gather himself 
together, but, as it were, dropping half a dozen | 


b 


“i Lin 


WW 


WO HIYO NNIAITAHL ,, 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


237 


il 


A AWK 


dit 


Nay 


— 


iL se 
jap a es 
Aiggs kbd Zs ————— — 
EPL A Lil g see % . 
BLL ff — sania SS ee ue 
Foal ‘ *. 


TD 
LL 


up one, Mr. Dolls, swaying his head from side 
to side, regarded his questioner with what he 
supposed to be a haughty smile and a scornful 
glance. 

‘©She looks upon me as mere child, Sir. I 
am not mere child, Sir. Man. Man talent. 
Lerrers pass betwixt ’em, Postman lerrers. 
Easy for man talent er get drection as get his 
own drection.” 

‘‘Get it then,” said Eugene; adding very 
heartily under his breath, ‘‘—You Brute! Get 
it, and bring it here to mé, and earn the money 
for sixty threepenn’orths of rum, and drink them 
all, one atop of another, and drink yourself 
dead with all possible expedition.”” The latter 
clauses of these special instructions he addressed 
to the fire, as he gave it back the ashes he had 
taken from it, and replaced the shovel. 

_ Mr. Dolls now struck out the highly unexpect- 


——————— 
s 


ed discovery that he had been insulted by Light- 
wood, and stated his desire to ‘‘have it out 
with him” on the spot, and defied him to come 
on, upon the liberal terms of a sovereign to a 
half-penny. Mr. Dolls then fell a crying, and 
then exhibited a tendency to fall asleep. This 
last manifestation as by far the most alarming, 
by reason of its threatening his prolonged stay 
on the premises, necessitated vigorous measures. 
Eugene picked up his worn-out hat with the 
tongs, clapped it on his head, and, taking him 
by the collar—all this at arm’s-length—conduct- 
ed him down stairs and out of the precincts into 
Fleet Street. There, he turned his face west- 
ward, and left him. 

When he got back, Lightwood was standing 
over the fire, brooding in a sufficiently low-spir- 


ited manner. 
‘1]] wash my hands of Mr. Dolls—physical- 


238 
ly—” said Eugene, ‘‘ and be with you again di- 
rectly, Mortimer.” 

‘¢{ would much prefer,” retorted Mortimer, 
**vour washing your hands of Mr. Dolls, moral- 

ly, Eugene.” 
So would I,” said Eugene; ‘‘but you see, 
dear boy, I can’t do without him.” 

In a mintte or two he resumed his chair, as 
perfectly unconcerned as usual, and rallied his 
friend on having so narrowly escapied the prow- 
ess of their muscular visitor. 

‘¢T can’t be amused on this theme,” said Mor- 
timer, restlessly. ‘‘You can make almost any 
theme amusing to me, Eugene, but not this.” 

.  ** Well!’ cried Eugene, ‘“T am a little 
ashamed of it myself, and therefore let us 
change the subject.” 

‘<Tt is so deplorably underhanded,”’ said Mor- 
timer. ‘It is so unworthy of you, this setting 
on of such a shameful scout.” 

‘We have changed the subject!” exclaimed 
Eugene airily. ‘‘ We have found a new one in 
that word, scout. Don’t be like Patience on a 
mantle-piece frowning at Dolls, but sit down, 
and I'll tell you something that you really will 
find amusing. Take a cigar. Look at this of 
mine. I light it—draw one puff—breathe the 
smoke out—there it goes—it’s Dolls—it’s gone 
—and being gone you are a man again.” 

‘¢ Your subject,” said Mortimer, after lighting 
a cigar, and comforting himself with a whiff or 
two, ‘‘ was scouts, Eugene.” 

‘¢Exactly. Isn’t it droll that I never go out 
after dark but I find myself attended always 
by one scout, and often by two 2?” 

Lightwood took his cigar from his lips in sur- 
prise, yand looked at his fr iend, as if with a latent 
suspicion that there must be a jest or hidden 
meaning in his words. 

**On my honor, no,” said Wrayburn, answer- 
ing the look and smiling carelessly; ‘‘ I don’t 
wonder at your supposing so, but on my honor, 
no. I say what I mean. I never go out after 
dark but I find myself in the ludicrous situa- 
tion of being followed and observed at a dis- 
tance, always by one scout, and often by two.” 

_** Are you sure, Eugene ?”’ 

“Sure ? My dear boy, they are always the 
same.’ 

‘‘But there’s no process out against you. 
The Jews only threaten. They have done no- 
thing. Besides, they know where to find you, 
and I represent you. Why take the trouble?” 

“Observe the legal mind !” remarked Eugene, 
turning round to the furniture again, with an air 
of indolent rapture. ‘‘ Observe the dyer’s hand, 
assimilating itself to what it works in—or would 
work in, if any body would give it any thing to 
do. Respected solicitor, it’s not that. The 
schoolmaster’s abroad.” 

“The schoolmaster ?” 

‘¢ Ay! Sometimes the schoolmaster and the 
pupil are both abroad. Why, how soon you 
rust inmy absence! You don’t understand yet ? 
Those fellows who were here one night. ‘They 
are the scouts I speak of, as doing me the honor 
to attend me after dark.” 

“¢ How long has this been going on?” asked 
Lightwood, opposing a serious face to the laugh 
of his friend. 

_ TJ apprehend it has been going on ever since 
a certain person went off. Probably it had 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — _ 


been going on some little time before I ie 


it: which would bring it to about that time.” 

‘*Do you think they suppose you to have in- 
veigled her away ?” 

‘‘ My dear Mortimer, you know the absorbing 
nature of my professional occupations ; ; IT really 
have not had leisure to think about it.” 

‘Have you asked them what they want? 
Have you objected ?” 

‘¢Why should I ask them what they want, 
dear fellow, when I am indifferent what they 
want? Why should I express objection, when 
I don’t object 2” 

‘¢You are in your most reckless mood. But 
you called the situation just now a Judicrous 
one; and most men object to that, even those 
who are utterly indifferent to every thing else.” 

‘You charm me, Mortimer, with your read- 
ing of my weaknesses. (By-the-by, that very 
word, Reading, in its critical use, always charms 
me. An actress’s Reading of a chamber-maid, 
a dancer’s Reading of a hornpipe, a singer’s 
Reading of a song, a marine-painter’s Reading 
of the sea, the kettle-drum’s Reading of an in- 
strumental passage, are phrases ever youthful 
and delightful.) I was mentioning your per- 
ception of my weaknesses. I own to the weak- 
ness of objecting to occupy a ludicrous posi- 
tion, and therefore I transfer the position to the 
scouts.’ 

“‘T wish, Eugene, you would speak a little 
more soberly and plainly, if it were only out of 
consideration for my feeling less at ease than 
you do.’ a 

‘¢Then soberly and plainly, Mortimer, I goad 
the schoolmaster to madness. I make the school- 
master so ridiculous, and so aware of being made 
ridiculous, that I see him chafe and fret at every 
pore when we cross one another. 'The amiable 
occupation has been the solace of my life, since I 
was balked in the manner unnecessary to re- 
call. Ihave derived inexpressible comfort from 
it. Ido it thus: 
little way, look in at a window, and furtively 
look out for the schoolmaster. Sooner or later 
I perceive the schoolmaster on the watch; some- 
times accompanied by his hopeful pupil, oftener 
pupil-less. Having made sure of his watching 
me, I tempt him on, all over London. One 
night I go east, another night north, in a few 
nights I go all round the compass. Sometimes 
I walk; sometimes I proceed in cabs, draining 
the pocket of the schoolmaster who then follows 
in cabs. I study and get up abstruse no Thor- 
oughfares in the course of the day. With Vene- 
tian mystery I seck those No Thoroughfares at 
night, glide into them by means of dark courts, 
tempt the schoolmaster to follow, turn suddenly, 
and catch him before he can retreat. Then we 
face one another, and I pass him as unaware of 
his existence, and he undergoes grinding tor- 
ments. Similarly, I walk at a great pace down 


'a short street, rapidly turn the corner, and, get- 
ting out of his view, as rapidly turn back. I 


catch him coming on post, again pass him as 
unaware of his existence, and again he under- 
goes grinding torments. Night after night his 
disappointment is acute, but hope springs eternal 


_in the scholastic breast, and he follows me again 


to-morrow. ‘Thus I enjoy the pleasures of the 


chase, and derive great benefit from the health- - 
i ful exercise. When I do not enjoy the pleasures — 


I stroll out after dark, stroll a — 


ay. 
bg 


attention. 


Eugene; ‘‘you have been too sedentary. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. : 239 


of the chase, for any thing I know he watches at 
the Temple Gate all night.” 

“This is an extraordinary story,” observed 
Lightwood, who had heard it out with serious 
~**T don’t like it.” 

“You are a little hipped, dear fellow,” said 
Come 
and enjoy the pleasures of the chase.” 

‘¢Do you mean that you believe he is watch- 
ing now?” ° 

‘<T have not the slightest doubt he is.” 

‘¢ Have you seen him to-night?” 

‘J forgot to lqok for him when I was last 
out,’ returned Eugene, with the calmest indif- 
ference; ‘‘but I dare say he was there. Come! 
Be a British sportsman, and enjoy the pleasures 
of the chase. It will do you good.” 

"Lightwood hesitated; but, yielding to his cu- 
riosity, rose. 

‘¢ Bravo!” cried Eugene, rising too. ‘‘ Or, if 
Yoicks would be in better keeping, consider that 
I said Yoicks. . Look to your feet, Mortimer, for 
we shall try your boots. When you are ready, 
I am—need I say with a Hey Ho Chivey, and 
likewise with a Hark Forward, Hark Forward, 
Tantivy ?” 

‘¢ Will nothing make you serious?” said Mor- 
timer, laughing through his gravity. 

‘‘T am always serious, but just now Iam a 
little excited by the glorious fact that a souther- 
iy wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting 
evening. Ready? So. We turn out the lamp 
and shut the door, and take the field.” 

As the two friends passed out of the Temple 
into the public street, Eugene demanded with a 
show of courteous patronage in which~direction 
Mortimer would like the run to be? ‘There is 
a rather difficult country about Bethnal Green,” 
said Eugene, ‘‘and we have not taken in that di- 
rection lately. Whatis your opinion of Bethnal 
Green ?” Mortimer assented to Bethnal Green, 
and they turned eastward. ‘‘Now, when we 
come to St. Paul’s church-yard,” pursued Eu- 
gene, ‘‘we'll loiter artfully, and Pll show you 
the schoolmaster.” But they both saw him be- 
fore they got there; alone, and stealing after 
them in the shadow of the houses on the oppo- 
site side of the way. 

“Get your wind,” said Eugene, “for I am 
off directly. Does it occur to you that the boys 
of Merry England will begin to deteriorate in an 
educational light if this lasts long? The school- 
master can’t attend to me and the boys too. Got 
your wind? I am off!” 

At what a rate he went, to breathe the school- 
master; and how he then lounged and loitered, 
to put his patience to another kind of wear; what 
preposterous ways he took, with no other object 
on earth than to disappoint and punish him; 
and how he wore him out by every piece of in- 
genuity that his eccentric humor could devise ; 
all this Lightwood noted with a feeling of aston- 
ishment that so careless a man could be so wary, 
and that so idle a man could take so much trou- 
ble. At last, far on in the third hour of the 


pleasures of the chase, when he had brought the 
poor dogging wretch round again into the City,, 


he twisted Mortimer up a few dark entries, twist- 
ed him into a little square court, twisted hint 
sharp round again, and they almost ran against 
Bradley Headstone. 

- $*And you see, as I was saying, Mortimer,” 


remarked Eugene aloud with the utthost cool- 
ness, as though there were no one within hears 
ing but themselves: ‘‘and you see, as 1 was says 
ing—undergoing grinding torments.” 

It was not too strong a phrase for the occasion. 
Looking like the hunted and not the hunter, 
baffled, worn, with the exhaustion of deferred 
hope and consuming hate and anger in his face, 
white-lipped, wild-eyed, draggle-haired, seamed 
with jealousy and anger, and torturing himself 
with the conviction that he showed it all and 
they exulted in it, he went by them in the dark, 
like a haggard head suspended in the air: so 
completely did the force of his expression cancel 
his figure. 

Mortimer Lightwood was not an extraordi- 
narily impressible man, but this face impressed 
him. He spoke of it more than once on the re- 
mainder of the way home, and more than once 
when they got home. 

They had been abed in their respective rooms 
two or three hours when Eugene was partly 
awakened by hearing a footstep going about, 
and was fully awakened by seeing Lightwood 
standing at his bedside, 

‘¢ Nothing wrong, Mortimer ?” 

Nos. 

‘¢What fancy takes you, then, for walking 
about in the night ?” 

‘T am horribly wakeful.” 

‘¢ How comes that about, I wonder ?” 

‘¢ Eugene, I can not lose sight of that fellow’s 
face.” 

‘¢Odd!” said Eugene, with a light laugh, ‘¢Z 
can.” And turned over, and fell asleep again. 


—_—__$_—$——__—— 


CHAPTER XI. 
IN THE DARK. 


Turre was no sleep for Bradley Headstone 
on that night when Eugene Wraybarn turned so 
easily in his bed; there-was no sleep for little 
Miss Peecher. Bradley consumed the lonely 
hours, and consumed himself, in haunting the 


spot where his careless rival lay a dreaming ; . 


little Miss Peecher wore them away in listening 
for the return home of the master of her heart, 
and in sorrowfully presaging that much was 


amiss with him. Yet more was amiss with him - 


than Miss Peecher’s simply-arranged little work- 
box of thoughts, fitted with no gloomy and dark 
recesses, could hold. For the state of the man 
was murderous. 

The state of the man was murderous, and he 
knew it. More: he irritated it with a kind of 
perverse pleasure akin to that which a sick man 
sometimes has in irritating a wound upon his 
body. ‘Tied up all day with his disciplined show 
upon him, subdued to the performance of his 
routine of educational tricks, encircled by a gab- 
bling crowd, he broke loose at night like an ill- 
tamed wild animal. Under his daily restraint 
it was his compensation, not his trouble, to give 
a glance toward his state at night, and to the 
freedom of its being indulged. If great crimin- 
als told the truth—which, being great crimin- 
als, they do not—they would very rarely tell of 
their struggles against the crime, Their strug- 
gles are toward it. They buffet with opposing 
waves to gain the bloody shore, not to recede 


int 


near upon two hours ago. 


240 


from it. This man perfectly comprehended that 
he hated his rival with his strongest and worst 
forces, and that if he tracked him to Lizzie 
Hexam his so doing would never serve himself 
with her, or serve her. All his pains were taken 


.to the end that he might incense himself with 


the sight of the detested figure in her company 
and favor in her place of concealment. And he 
knew as well what act of his would follow if he 
did, as he knew that his mother had borne him. 
Granted, that he may not have held it necessary 
to make express mention to himself of the one 
familiar truth any more than of the other. 

He knew equally well that he fed his wrath 
and hatred, and that he accumulated provoca- 
tion and self-justification by being made the 
nightly sport of the reckless and insolent Eu- 
gene. Knowing all this, and still always going 
on with infinite endurance, pains, and persever- 
ance, could his dark soul doubt whither he went ? 

Baitled, exasperated, and weary, he lingered 
opposite the Temple gate when it closed on 
Wrayburn and Lightwood, debating with him- 
self should he go home for that time or should 
he watch longer. Possessed in his jealousy by 
the fixed idea that Wrayburn was in the secret, 
if it were not altogether of his contriving, Brad- 
ley was as confident of getting the better of him 
at last by sullenly sticking to him, as he would 


_ have been—and often had been—of mastering 


any piece of study in the way of his vocation by 
the like slow, persistent process. A man of rap- 
id passions and sluggish intelligence, it had served 
him often, and should serve him again. 

The suspicion crossed him as he rested in a 
doorway, with his eyes upon the Temple gate, 
that perhaps she was even concealed in that set 
of Chambers. It would furnish another reason 
for Wrayburn’s purposeless walks, and it might 
be. He thought of it and thought of it, until he 
resolved to steal up the stairs, if the gate-keeper 
would let him through, and listen. So, the hag- 
gard head suspended in the air flitted across the 
road, like the spectre of one of the many heads 
erst hoisted upon neighboring Temple Bar, and 
stopped before the watchman. 

The watchman looked at it, and asked: ‘Who 
for ?” 

‘¢Mr. Wrayburn.” 

**Tt’s very late.’? 

**He came back with Mr. Lightwood, I know, 
But if he has gone to 
bed ll put a paper in his letter-box. Iam ex- 
pected,” 

The watchman said no more, but opened the 
gate, though rather doubtfully. Seeing, how- 
ever, that the visitor went straight and fast in 
the right direction, he seemed satisfied. 

The haggard head floated up the dark stair- 
case, and softly descended nearer to the floor 
outside the outer door ofthe chambers. The doors 
of the rooms within appeared to be standing 
open. ‘There were rays of candlelight from one 
of them, and there was the sound of a footstep 
going about. There were two voices. The words 
they uttered were not distinguishable, but they 
were .both the voices of men. In a few mo- 
ments the voices were silent, and there was no 
sound of footstep, and the inner light went out. 
If Lightwood could have seen the face which 
kept him awake, staring and Nstening in the 
darkness outside the door as he spoke of it, he 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


might have been less disposed to sleep through 
the remainder of the night. 

‘*Not there,” said Bradley; ‘but she might 
have been.” The head arose to its former height 
from the ground, floated down the staircase again, 
and passed on to the gate. A man was stand- 
ing there in parley with the watchman. 

“Oh!” said the watchman. ‘Here he is!” 

Perceiving himself to be the antecedent, Brad- 
ley looked from the watchman to the man. 

‘This man is leaving a letter for Mr. Light 
wood,” the watchman explained, showing it in 
his hand; ‘‘and I was mentioning that a per- 
son had just gone up to Mr. Lightwood’s cham- 
bers. It might be the same business perhaps ?” 

‘* No,” said Bradley, glancing at the man, who 
was a stranger to him. 

‘“‘No,” the man assented in a surly way; 
‘my letter—it’s wrote by my daughter, but it’s 
mine—is about my business, and my business 
ain’t nobody else’s business.” 

As Bradley passed out at the gate with an un- 
decided foot he heard it shut behind him, and 
heard the footstep of the man coming after him. 

‘“’Scuse me,” said the man, who appeared to 
have been drinking, and rather stumbled at him 
than touched him, to attract his attention; ‘but 
might you be acquainted with the T’other Goy- 
ernar?” is. 

‘“With whom ?” asked Bradley. 

*‘With,” returned the man, pointing back. 
ward over his right shoulder with his right 
thumb, ‘‘the T’other Governor ?” 

‘‘{ don’t know what you mean.” 

“Why look here,” hooking his proposition 
on his left-hand fingers with the forefinger of 
his right. ‘‘There’s two Governors, ain’t there ? 
One and one, two—Lawyer Lightwood, my first 
finger, he’s one, ain’t he? - Well; might you be 
acquainted with my middle finger, the T’other ?” 

““T know quite as much of him,” said Brad- 
ley, with a frown and a distant look before him, 
‘*as I want to know.” 

‘‘Hooroar!” cried the man. ‘* Hooroar 
T’other t’other Governor.: Hooroar T’otherest 
Governor! I am of your way of thinkin’.” 

‘Don’t make such a noise at this dead hour 
of the night. What are you talking about ?” 

‘‘Look here, 'T’otherest Governor,” replied 
the man, becoming hoarsely confidential. ‘‘The 
T’other Governor he’s always joked his jokes 
agin me, owing, as J believe, to my being a hon- 
est man as gets my living by the sweat of my 
brow. Which he ain’t, and he don’t.” 

** What is that to me?” 

‘*'T’otherest Governor,” returned the man in 
a tone of injured innocence, “if you don’t care 
to hear no more, don’t hear no more. You be- 
gun it. You said, and likeways showed pretty 
plain, as you warn’t by no means friendly to him. 
But I don’t seek to force my company nor yet 
my opinions on no man. I am a honest man, 
that’s what I am. Put me in the dock any 
where—I don’t care where—and I says, ‘My 
Lord, Iam a honest man.’ Put me in the wit~ 
ness-box any where—I don’t care where—and 
I says the same to his lordship, and I kisses the 
book. I don’t kiss my coat-cuff; I kisses the 
book.” 

It was not so much in deference to these 
strong testimonials to character, as in his rest- 


less casting about for any way or help toward 


i, ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


the discovery on which he was concentrated, 


_ that Bradley Headstone replied: ‘‘ You needn’t 


take offense. I didn't mean to stop you. You 
were too loud in the open street; that was all.” 
**T’otherest Governor,” replied Mr. Rider- 


_ hood, mollified and mysterious, ‘‘I know wot it 


is to be loud, and I know wot it is to be soft. 
Nat’rally I do. It would be a wonder if I did 
not, being by the Chris’en name of Roger, which 
took it arter my own father, which took it from 
his own father, though which of our fam’ly fust 
took it nat’ral I will not in any ways mislead you 
by undertakin’ to say. And wishing that your 
elth may be better than your looks, which your 
inside must be bad indeed if it’s on the footing 
of your out.” 

Startled by the implication that his face re- 
vealed too much of his mind, Bradley made an 
effort to clear his brow. It might be worth 
knowing what this strange man’s business was 
with Lightwood, or Wrayburn, or both, at such 
an ‘unseasonable hour. He set himself to find 
out, for the man might prove to be a messenger 
between those two. 

“*You call at the Temple late,” he remarked, 


» with a lumbering show of ease. 


*¢ Wish I may die,” cried Mr. Riderhood, with 
a hoarse laugh, ‘‘if I warn’t a goin’ to say the 
self-same words to you, T’otherest Governor!” 

**It chanced so with me,”’ said Bradley, look- 
ing disconcertedly about him. 

‘‘And it chanced so with me,” said Rider- 
hood. ‘But I don’t mind telling you how. 
Why should I mind telling you? I’m a Depu- 


_ ty Lock-keeper up the river, and I was off duty 


‘yes'day, and I shall be on to-morrow.” ~ 


“Yes?” d 

“Yes, and I come to London to look arter 
my private affairs. My private affairs is to get 
appinted to the Lock as reg’lar keeper at fust 
hand, and to have the law of a busted B’low- 
Bridge steamer which drownded of me. I ain’t 
a goin’ to be drownded and not paid for it!” 

Bradley looked at him, as though he were 


- Claiming to be a ghost. 


“The steamer,” said Mr. Riderhood, obsti- 
nately, ‘‘run me down and drownded of me. 
Interference on the part of other parties brought 


me round; but I never asked ’em to bring me 


round, nor vet the steamer never asked ’em to 
it. I mean to be paid for the life as the steam- 
er took.” 

_ “Was that your business at Mr. Lightwood’s 
ehambers in the middle of the night?” asked 


- Bradley, eving him with distrust. 


“‘That and to get a writing to be fust-hand 
Lock- keeper. A recommendation in writing 
being looked for, who else ought to give it to 
me? As I says in the letter in my daughter’s 


_ hand, with my mark put to it to make it good 


in law, Who but you, Lawyer Lightwood, ought 
to hand over this here stifficate, and who but 
you ought to go in for damages on my account 
agin the Steamer? For (as I says under my 
mark) I have had trouble enough along of you 
and your friend. If you, Lawyer Lightwood, 
had backed me good and true, and if the T’oth- 
er Governor had took me down correct (I says 
under my mark), I should have been worth 


“money at the present time, instead of having a 


barge-load of bad names chucked at me, and 


being forced to eat my words, which is a unsat- 


a 


241 


isfving: sort of food wotever a man’s appetite ! 
And when you mention the middle of the night 
T’otherest Governor,” growled Mr. Riderhood, 
winding up his monotonous summary of his 
wrongs, ‘*throw your eye on this here bundle 
under my arm, and bear in mind that ['m a 
walking back to my Lock, and that the Temple 
laid upon my line of road.” 

Bradley Headstone’s face had changed dur- 
ing this latter recital, and he had observed the 
speaker with a more sustained attention. 

‘Do you know,” said he, after a pause, dur- 
ing which they walked on side by side, ‘that I 
believe I could tell you your name, if I tried ?” 

‘Prove your opinion,” was the answer, ae- 
companied with a stop and a stare. Try.” 

‘* Your name is Riderhood.”’ 

‘‘Pm blest if it ain’t,” returned that gentle- 
man. ‘‘ But I don’t know your’n.” 

‘“That’s quite another thing,” said Bradley. 
‘*T never supposed’ you did.” 

As Bradley walked on meditating, the Rogue 
walked on at his side muttering. The purport 
of the muttering was: ‘‘that Rogue Riderhood, 
by George! seemed to be made public property 
on, now, and that every man seemed to think 
himself free to handle his name as if it was a 
Street Pump.” The purport of the meditating 
was: ‘‘ Here is an instrument. Can I use it?” 

They had walked along the Strand, and into 
Pall Mall, and had turned up-hill toward Hyde 
Park Corner; Bradley Headstone waiting on 
the pace and lead of Riderhood, and leaving him 


to indicate the course. , So slow were the school- 
master’s thoughts, and so indistinct his purposes 


when they were but tributary to the one absorb- 
ing purpose—or rather when, like dark trees 
under a stormy sky, they only lined the long 
vista at the end of which he saw those two figures 
of Wrayburn and Lizzie on which his eyes were 
fixed—that at least a good half-mile was trav- 
ersed before he spoke again. Even then, it was 
only to ask; 

‘* Where is your Lock ?” 

““Twenty mile and odd—call it five-and-twen- 
ty mile and odd, if you like—up stream,” was the 
sullen reply. 

‘¢ How is it called ?” 

‘‘Plashwater Weir Mill Lock.” 


‘¢ Suppose I was to offer you five shillings; © 


what then?” 

‘‘Why, then, I’d take it,” said Mr. Rider- 
hood. 

The schoolmaster put his hand in his pocket, 
and produced two half-crowns, and placed them 
in Mr. Riderhood’s palm: who stopped at a con- 
venient door-step to ring them both, before ac- 
knowledging their receipt. 

‘‘There’s one thing about you, T’otherest 
Governor,” said Riderhood, faring on again, 
‘<as looks well and goes fur. You're a ready- 
money man. Now;” when he had carefully 
pocketed the coins on that side of himself which 
was furthest from his new friend; ‘‘ what’s this 
for ?” 


‘¢ For you.” 
‘Why, o’ course I know that,” said Rider- 


hood, as arguing something that was self-evi- 
dent. ‘0’ course I know very well as no man 
in his right senses would suppose as any think 
would make me give it up agin. when I'd onee 
got it. But what do you want for it?” 


poe 


242 


“‘T don’t know that I want any thing for it. 
Or if I do want any thing for it, I don’t know 


what it is.’ Bradley gave this answer in a 


stolid, vacant, and self-communing marmer, 
which Mr. Riderhood found very extraordinary. 
‘¢You have no good-will toward this Wray- 


burn,” said Bradley, coming to the name in a 


reluctant and forced way, as if he were dragged 
to it. 

<< 'No,” 

<¢ Neither have I.” 

Riderhood nodded, and asked: ‘‘Is it for 


j that rt ; 


‘‘Tt’s as much for that as any thing else. It’s 
something to be agreed with, on a subject that 
occupies so much of one’s thoughts.” 

‘Tt don’t agree with you,” returned Mr. Rider- 
hood, bluntly. ‘‘No! It don’t, T’otherest Gov- 
ernor, and it’s no use a lookin’ as if you wanted 
to make out that it did. I tell you it rankles in 
you. It rankles in you, rusts in you, and pisons 

ou.” 
Ais Say that it does so,” returned Bradley, with 
quivering lips; ‘‘is there no cause for it ?” 

‘¢Cause enough, I’ll bet a pound!” said Mr. 
Riderhood. 

‘¢ Haven’t you yourself declared that the fel- 
low has heaped provocations, insults, and affronts 
on you, or something to that effect? He has 
done the same by me. He is made of venomous 
insults and affronts, from the crown of his head 
to the sole of his foot. Are you so hopeful or so 
stupid as not to know that he and the other will 
treat your application with contempt, and light 
their cigars with it?” 

‘¢T shouldn’t wonder if they did, by George !” 
said Riderhood, turning angrily. 

“Jf they did! ‘They will. Let me ask you 
a question. I know something more than your 
name about you; I knew something about Gaffer 
Hexam. When did you last set eyes upon his 
daughter ?”’ 

‘¢ When did I last set eyes upon his daughter, 
T’otherest Governor ?” repeated Mr. Riderhood, 
growing intentionally slower of comprehension 
as the other quickened in his speech. 

‘‘Yes, Not to speak to her. To see her— 
any where ?” 

The Rogue had got the clew he wanted, though 
he held it with a clumsy hand. Looking per- 
plexedly at the passionate face, as if he were 
trying to work out a sum in his mind, he slowly 


“answered: ‘‘I ain’t set eyes upon her-—never 


once—not since the day of Gaffer’s death.” 

‘¢You know her well, by sight ?” 

“‘T should think I did! No one better.” 

*¢ And you know him as well?” 

‘¢Who's him ?” asked Riderhood, taking off 
his hat and rubbing his forehead, as he directed 
a dull look at his questioner. 

‘¢‘Curse the name! Is it so agreeable to you 


- that von want to hear it again ?” 


‘<Oh! Hin?” said Riderhood, who had craft- 
ily worked the schoolmaster into this corner, that 
he might again take note of his face under its evil 
possession. “¢ P’'d know Aim among a thousand.” 

“Did you—” Bradley tried to ask it quietly ; 
but, do what he might with his voice, he could 
not subdue his face ;—‘‘did you ever see them 
together ?” 


(The Rogue had got the clew in both hands 


now.) — 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. ~ 


ie Uae 


‘<I see ’eni together, T’otherest Governor, on 
the very day when Gaffer was towed ashore.” 

Bradley could have hidden a reserved piece 
of information from the sharp eyes of a whole 
inquisitive class, but he could not veil from the 
eyes of the ignorant Riderhood the withheld 
question next in his breast. ‘‘ You shall put 
it plain if you want it answered,” thought the 
Rogue, doggedly ; ‘‘I ain’t a-going a wolunteer- 
ing.” 

‘Well! was he insolent to her too?” asked 
Bradley, after a struggle. ‘‘Or did he make a 
show of being kind to her?” 

‘¢He made a show of being most uncommon 
kind to her,” said Riderhood. ‘‘By George! 
now I—” 

His flying off at a tangent was indisputably 
natural. Bradley looked at him for the reason. 

‘¢Now I think of it,” said Mr. Riderhood, 
evasively, for he was substituting those words 
for ‘* Now I see you so jealous,” which was the 
phrase really in his mind; ‘‘P’r’aps he went 
and took me down wrong, a purpose, on account 
0’ being sweet upon her!” 

The baseness of confirming him in this sus- 
picion or pretense of one (for he could not have 
really entertained it), was a line’s breadth be- 
yond the mark the schoolmaster had reached. 
The baseness of communing and intriguing with 
the fellow who would have set that stain upon 
her, and upon her brother too, was attained. 
The line’s breadth further lay beyond. He 
made no reply, but walked on with a lowering 
face. 

What he might gain by this acquaintance he 
could not work out in his slow and cumbrous 
thoughts. The man had an injury against the 
object of his hatred, and that was something ; 
though it was less than he supposed, for there 
dwelt in the man no such deadly rage and re- 
sentment as burned in his own breast. The man 
knew her, and might by a fortunate chance see 
her, or hear of her; that was something, as en- 
listing one pair of eyes and ears the more. The 
man was a bad man, and willing enough to be 
in his pay. That was something, for his own 
state and purpose were as bad as bad could be, 
and he seemed to derive a vague support from 
the possession of a congenial instrument, though 
it might never be used. 

Suddenly he stood still and asked Riderhood _ 
point-blank if he knew where she was?  Clear- 
ly, he did not know. He asked Riderhood if 
he would be willing, in case any intelligence of 
her, or of Wrayburn as seeking her or associa- 
ting with her, should fall in his way, to com-— 
municate it if it were paid for? He would be 
very willing indeed. He was ‘‘agin ’em both,” 
he said, with an oath, and for why? ’Cause 
they had both stood betwixt him and his getting 
his living by the sweat of his brow, 

‘Tt will not be long then,” said Bradley 
Headstone, after some more discourse to this 
effect, ‘‘ before we see one another again. Here 
is the country road, and here is the day. Both 
have come upon me by surprise.” a) 

‘‘ But, T’otherest Governor,” urged Mr. Rider- — 
hood, “I don't know where to find you.” 

‘Tt is of no consequence. I know where to | 
find you, and I’l] come to your Lock.” ya 

‘“‘ But, T’otherest Governor,” urged Mr. Rider — 
hood again, ‘‘ no luck never come yet of a dry_ 


7 


y 


yal 


iver as 
Pe bs eC een 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | 343 


acquaintance. Let’s wet it, in a mouthful of 
rum and milk, T’otherest Governor.” 

Bradley assenting, went with him into an early 
public house, haunted by unsavory smells of 
musty hay and stale. straw, where returning 
carts, farmers’ men, gaunt dogs, fowls of a beery 
breed, and certain human night-birds fluttering 


‘home to roost, were solacing themselves after 


their several manners; and where not one of 
the night-birds hovering about the sloppy bar 
failed to discern at a glance in the passion-wasted 
night-bird with respectable feathers the worst 


—night-bird of all. 


An inspiration of affection for a half-drunken 
earter going his way led to Mr. Riderhood’s be- 
ing elevated on a high heap of baskets on a wag- 
on, and pursuing his journey recumbent on his 
back with his head on his bundle. Bradley then 
turned to retrace his steps, and by-and-by struck 
off through little-traversed ways, and by-and-by 
reached school and home. Up came the sun 
to find him washed and brushed, methodically 
dressed in decent black coat and waistcoat, de- 
cent formal black tie, and pepper-and-salt panta- 
loons, with his decent silver watch in its pocket, 
and its decent hair-guard round his neck; a 
scholastic huntsman clad for the field, with his 
fresh pack yelping and barking around him. 

Yet more really bewitched than the miscrable 
creatures of the much-lamented times, who ac- 
cused themselves of impossibilities under a con- 
tagion of horror and the strongly suggestive in- 
fluences of Torture, he had been ridden hard by 
Evil Spirits in the night that was newly gone. 
He had been spurred and whipped and. heavily 
sweated. If a record of the sport had, usurped 
the places of the peaceful texts from Scripture 
on the wall, the most advanced of the scholars 
might have taken fright and run away from their 
master. 

ea 


CHAPTER XII. 
MEANING MISCHIEF. 


Up came the sun, streaming all over London, 
and in its glorious impartiality even condescend- 


ing to make prismatic sparkles in the whiskers’ 


of Mr. Alfred Lammle as he sat at breakfast. 
In need of some brightening from without was 
Mr. Alfred Lammle, for he had the air of being 


dull enough within, and looked grievously dis- 


contented. 

Mrs. Alfred Lammle faced her lord. The 
happy pair of swindlers, with the comfortable 
tie between them that each had swindled the 
other, sat moodily observant of the table-cloth. 
Things looked so gloomy in the breakfast-room, 
albeit on the sunny side of Sackville Street, that 
any of the family tradespeople glancing through 
the blinds might have taken the hint to send in 
his account and press for it. But this, indeed, 
most of the family tradespeople had already 
done, without the hint. 

_ “Tt seems to me,” said Mrs. Lammle, “ that 
you have had no money at all, ever since we 


- have been married.” 


‘What seems to you,” said Mr. Lammle, ‘‘to 
have been the case, may possibly have been the 
ease. It doesn’t matter.” 

Was it the specialty of Mr. and Mrs. Lammle, 


or does it ever obtain with other loving couples? 


, ee 


a 


In these matrimonial dialogues they neyer ad- 
dressed each other, but always some invisible 
presence that appeared to take a station about 
midway between them. Perhaps the skeleton in 
the cupboard comes out to be talked to on such 
domestic occasions ? 

‘*T have never seen any money in the house,” 
said Mrs. Lammle to the skeleton, ‘‘ except my 
own annuity. That I swear.” 

‘**You needn’t take the trouble of swearing,” 
said Mr. Lammle to the skeleton; ‘once more, 
it doesn’t matter. You never turned your an- 
nuity to so good an account,” 

“Good an account! In what way?” asked 
Mrs. Lammle. 

‘In the way of getting credit, and living 
well,” said Mr. Lammle. 

Perhaps the skeleton laughed scornfully on 
being intrusted with this question and this an- 
swer ; certainly Mrs. Lammle did, and Mr. Lam- 
mle did. 

‘* And what is to happen next?” asked Mrs. 
Lammile of the skeleton. 

‘Smash is to happen next,” said Mr. Lammle 
to the same authority. 

After this, Mrs. Lammle looked disdainfully 
at the skeleton—but without carrying the look 
on to Mr. Lammle—and drooped her eyes. 
After that, Mr. Lammle did exactly the same 
thing, and drooped his eyes. A ‘servant then 
entering with toast, the skeleton retired into the 
closet, and shut itself up. 

‘¢ Sophronia,” said Mr. Lammle, when the 
servant had withdrawn. And then, very much 
louder: ‘‘ Sophronia !”’ 

*¢ Well ?” 

‘¢ Attend to me, if you please.” He eyed her 
sternly until she did attend, and then went on. 
“T want to take counsel with you. Come, 
come; no more trifling. You know our league 
and covenant. We are to work together for our 
joint interest, and you are as knowing a hand 
asIlam. We shouldn’t be together, if you were 
not. What’s to be done? We are hemmed 
into acorner. What shall we do?” 

‘‘Have you ao scheme on foot that will bring 
in any thing?” 

Mr. Lammle plunged into his whiskers for re- 
flection, and came out hopeless: ‘‘ No; as ad- 
venturers we are obliged to play rash games for 
chances of high winnings, and there has been a 
run of luck against us,” 


. : e $3) 
She was resuming, ‘‘ Have you nothing—” 


when he stopped her. 

‘¢We, Sophronia. We, we, we.” 

‘¢ Have we nothing to sell?” 

‘‘Deuce a bit. I have given a Jew a bill of 
sale on this furniture, and he could take it to- 
morrow, to-day, now. He would have taken it 
before now, I believe, but for Fledgeby.” 

‘What has Fledgeby to do with him?” 

‘‘Knew him. Cautioned me against him be- 
fore I got into his claws. Couldn’t persuade 
him then, in behalf of somebody else.” 

‘‘Do you mean that Fledgeby has at all soft- 
ened him toward you?” 

‘Us, Sophronia. Us, us, us.” 

‘Toward us?” 

‘‘T mean that the Jew has not yet done what 
he might have done, and that Fledgeby takes 
the credit of having got him to hold his hand.” 

‘‘ Do you believe Fledgeby ?” 


1h 


244 


‘¢ Sophronia, I never believe any body. I 
never have, my dear, since I believed you. 
it looks like it.” 

Having given her this back-handed reminder 
of her mutinous observations to the skeleton, Mr. 
Lammle rose from table—perhaps, the better to 
conceal a smile, and a white dint or two about 
his nose—and took a turn on the carpet and 
came to the hearth-rug. 


“Tf we could have packed the brute off with | 
upon the phrase, ‘‘ would not allow us to be si- 


Georgiana; but however; that’s spilled milk.” 


As Lammle, standing gathering up the.skirts | 
speculation on the Secretary’s part, and so gross 


of his dressing-gown with his back to the fire, 
said this, looking down at his wife, she turned 
pale and looked down at the ground. With a 


sense of disloyalty upon her, and perhaps with a | 


sense of personal danger—for she was afraid of 
him—even afraid of his hand and afraid of his 
foot, though he had never done her violence— 
she hastened to put herself right in his eyes. 

“If we could borrow money, Alfred—” 

‘¢ Bez money, borrow money, or steal money. 
It would be all one to us, Sophronia,” her hus- 
band struck in, 

‘¢__Then, we could weather this ?” 

‘No doubt. To offer another original and 
undeniable remark, Sophronia, two and: two 
make four.” 

But, seeing that she was turning something 
in her mind, he gathered up the skirts of his 
dressing gown again, and, tucking them under 
one arm, and collecting his ample whiskers in 
his other hand, kept his eye upon her, silently. 

“Tt is natural, Alfred,” she said, looking up 
with some timidity into his face, ‘‘to think in 
such an emergency of the richest people we 
know, and the simplest.” 

‘¢ Just so, Sophronia.” 

‘¢'The Boffins.”’ 

“¢ Just so, Sophronia.” 

Ts there nothing to be done with them ?” 

‘What is there to be done with them, So- 
phronia ?” 

She cast about in her thoughts again, and he 
kept his eye upon her as before. 

‘Of course I have repeatedly thought of the 
Boffins, Sophronia,” he resumed, after a fruit- 
less silence; ‘‘but I have seen my way to no- 
thing. They are well gnarded. That infernal 
Secretary stands between them and—people of 
Acrit.”’ 

‘Tf he could be got rid of ?” said she, bright- 
ening a little, after more casting about. 

‘¢Take time, Sophronia,” observed her watch- 
ful husband, in a patronizing manner. 

‘If working him out of the way could be 
presented in the light of a service to Mr. Bof- 
fin ?” 

‘¢Take time, Sophronia.” 

‘‘We have remarked lately, Alfred, that the 
old man is turning very suspicious and distrust- 
ful.” 

‘¢ Miserly, too, my dear; which is far the most 
unpromising for us. Nevertheless, take time, 
Sophronia, take time.” 

She took time, and then said: 

‘¢ Suppose we should address ourselves to that 
tendency in him of which we have made our- 
selves quite sure. Suppose my conscience—”’ 

‘¢And we know what a conscience it is, my 
soul. Yes?” 


‘‘ Suppose my conscience should not allow me 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


to keep to myself any longer what that upstart 


But | girl told me of the Secretary’s having made a 


declaration to her. Suppose my conscience 


‘should oblige me to repeat it to Mr. Boffin.” 


‘‘T rather like that,” said Lammle. 

‘« Suppose I so repeated it to Mr. Boffin, as to 
insinuate that my sensitive delicacy and honor—” 

‘¢ Very good words, Sophronia.” 

‘¢__As to insinuate that our sensitive delicacy 
and honor,” she resumed, with a bitter stress 


lent parties to so mercenary and designing a 


a breach of faith toward his confiding employer, 
Suppose I had imparted my virtuous uneasiness 
to my excellent husband, and he had said, in his 
integrity, ‘Sophronia, you must immediately 


| disclose this to Mr. Boffin.’” 


‘‘Qnce more, Sophronia,” observed Lammle, 
changing the leg on which he stood, ‘‘I rather 
like that.” 

‘“You remark that he is well guarded,” she 
pursued. ‘I think so too, But if this should 
lead to his discharging his Secretary, there would 
be a weak place made.” 

‘Go on expounding, Sophronia. ‘I begin to 
like this very much.” 

‘Having, in our unimpeachable rectitude, 
done him the service of opening his eyes to the 
treachery of the person he trusted, we shall have 
established a claim upon him and a confidence 
with him. Whether it can be made much of, 
or little of, we must wait—because we can’t help 
it—to see. Probably we shall make the most 
of it that is to be made.” 

‘¢ Probably,’ said Lammle. 

“Do you think it impossible,” she asked, in 
the same cold plotting way, ‘“*that you might re- 
place the Secretary ?” 

‘‘Not impossible, Sophronia. It might be 
brought about. At any rate it might be skill- 
fully led up to.” 

She nodded her understanding of the hint, as 
she looked at the fire. ‘‘Mr. Lammle,” she 
said, musingly: not without a slight ironical 
touch: ‘*Mr. Lammle would be so delighted to 
do any thing in his power. Mr. Lammle, him- 


self a man of business as well as a capitalist. 


Mr. Lammle, accustomed to be intrusted with 
the most delicate affairs. Mr. Lammle, who 
has managed my own little fortune so admirably, 
but who, to be sure, began to make his reputa- 
tion with the advantage of being a man of prop-. 
erty, above temptation, and beyond suspicion.” 
Mr. Lammle smiled, and even patted her on 
the head. In his sinister relish of the scheme, 
as he stood above her, making it the subject of 


| his cogitations, he seemed to have twice as much 


nose on his face as he had ever had in his life. 

He stood pondering, and she sat looking at 
the dusty fire without moving for some time. 
But the moment he began to speak again she 
looked up with a wince and attended to him, as 
if that double-dealing of hers had been in her 
mind, and the fear were revived in her of his 
hand or his foot. . 

‘¢Tt appears to me, Sophronia, that you have 
omitted one branch of the subject. Perhaps not, _ 
for women understand women. We might oust 
the girl herself?” ; 

Mrs. Lammle shook her head. ‘She has an. 
immensely strong hold upon them both, Alfred. 


y a = * te 
5 mt 2c) eee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


- Not to be compared with that of a paid secre- 

tary.”’ a , 

i But the dear child,” said Lammle, with a 
crooked smile, ‘‘ought to have been open with 
her benefactor and benefactress. The darling 
love ought to have reposed unbounded confi- 
dence in her benefactor and benefactress.”’ 

Sophronia shook her head again. 

‘¢Well! Women understand women,” said 
her husband, rather disappointed. ‘‘I don’t press 
it. It might be the making of our fortune to 
make a clean sweep of them both. With me to 
manage the property, and my wife to manage 
the people—W hew !” 

Again shaking her head, she returned: ‘‘ They 
will never quarrel with the girl, They will never 
punish the girl. We must accept the girl, rely 
upon it.” 

‘© Well!” cried Lammle, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, “so be it: only. always remember that we 
don’t want her.” 

‘©Now the sole remaining question is,”’ said 
Mrs. Lammle, ‘ when shall I begin?” 

““You can not begin too soon, Sophronia. 
As I have told you, the condition of our affairs 
is desperate, and may be blown upon at any mo- 
ment.” 

‘‘T must secure Mr. Boffin alone, Alfred. If 
his wife was present, she would throw oil upon 
the waters. I know I should fail to move him 
to an angry outburst if his wife was there. And 
as to the girl herself—as I am going to betray her 
confidence, she is equally out of the question.” 

‘Tt wouldn’t do to write for an appoint- 
ment?’ said Lammle. 

‘“No, certainly not. They would wonder 
among themselves why I wrote, and/I want to 
have him wholly unprepared.” 

‘¢Call, and ask to see him alone ?” suggested 
Lammle. 

‘*T would rather not dothateither. Leave it 
tome. Spare me the little carriage for to-day, 
and for to-morrow (if I don’t succeed to-day), 

“and I'll lie in wait for him.” 

It was barely settled when a manly form was 
seen to pass the windows and heard to knock 
-and ring. ‘‘Here’s Fledgeby,” said Lammle. 
‘He admires you, and has a high opinion of 

you. I'll be out. 
“with the Jew. His name is Riah, of the House 
of Pubsey and Co.” Adding these words under 
his breath, lest he should be audible in the erect 
ears of Mr. Fledgeby, through two keyholes and 
the hall, Lammle, making signals of discretion 
to his servant, went softly up stairs. 

‘““Mr. Fledgeby,” said Mrs. Lammle, giving 
him a very gracious reception, ‘‘so glad to see 
“you! My poor dear Alfred, who is greatly wor- 
ried just now about his affairs, went out rather 
early. Dear Mr. Fledgeby, do sit down.” 

Dear Mr. Fledgeby did sit down, and satisfied 
himself (or, judging from the expression of his 
countenance, dissatisfied himself) that nothing 
~ new had occurred in the way of whisker-sprout 
~ since he came round the corner from the Albany. 
“Dear Mr. Fledgeby, it was needless to men- 
~ tion to you that my poor dear Alfred is much 
- worried about his affairs at present, for he has 
told me what a comfort you are to him in his 
temporary difficulties, and what a great service 


> 


_* you have rendered him.” 


yo Oh!” said Mr. Fledgeby. 


Coax him to use his influence 


245 


“Yes,” said Mrs. Lammle. 

ri didn’t know,” remarked Mr. Fledgeby, 
trying a new part of his chair, ‘but that Lam- 
mle might be reserved about his affairs.” 

‘Not to me,” said Mrs, Lammle, with deep 
feeling. 

‘*Oh, indeed ?” said Fledgeby. 

3 Not tome, dear Mr. Fledgeby. Tam his wife.” 

Yes. I—I always understood so,” said. Mr, 
Fledgeby. 

‘* And as the wife of Alfred, may I, dear Mr, 
Fledgeby, wholly without his authority or knowl- 
edge, as I am sure your discernment will per- 
ceive, entreat you to continue that great service, 
and once more use your well-earned influence 
with Mr. Riah for a little more indulgence ? 
The name I have heard Alfred mention, tossing 
in his dreams, ts Riah; is it not?” 

“<The name of the Creditor is Riah,” said Mr. 
Fledgeby, with a rather uncompromising accent 
on his noun-substantive. ‘‘Saint Mary Axe. 
Pubsey and Co.” 

‘‘Oh yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Lammle, clasp- 
ing her hands with a certain gushing wildness. 
‘*¢ Pubsey and Co. !” 

‘« The pleading of the feminine—”’ Mr. Fledge- 
by began, and there stuck so long for a word to 
get on with, that Mrs. Lammle offered him 
sweetly, ‘‘ Heart ?” 

‘‘No,” said Mr. Fledgeby, ‘‘ Gender—is ever 
what a man is bound to listen to, and I wish it 
rested with myself. But this Riah is a nasty 
one, Mrs. Lammle; he really is.”’ 

‘‘ Not if you speak to him, dear Mr. Fledgeby.” 

‘¢Upon my soul and body he is!” said Fledge- 
by. 
Me Try. Try once more, dearest Mr. Fledgeby. 
What is there you can not do, if you will!” 

‘‘ Thank you,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘ you're very 
complimentary to say so. I don’t mind trying 
him again at your request. But of course I 
can’t answer for the consequences. Riah is a 
tough subject, and when he says he’ll do a thing, 
he’ll do it.” 

‘« Exactly so,” cried Mrs. Lammle, ‘‘and when 
he says to you he’ll wait, he’ll wait.” 

(‘*She is a devilish clever woman,” thought 
Fledgeby. ‘‘I didn’t see that opening, but she 
spies it out and cuts into it as soon as it’s made.”) 

‘In point of fact, dear Mr. Fledgeby,” Mrs. 
Lammle went on in a very interesting manner, 
“ not to affect concealment of Alfred’s hopes, 
to you who are so much his friend, there is a 
distant break in his horizon.” 

This figure of speech seemed rather mysteri- 
ous to Fascination Fledgeby, who said, ‘* There’s 
a what in his—eh ?” . 

“ Alfred, dear Mr. Fledgeby, discussed with 
me this very morning before he went out some 
prospects he has, which might entirely change 
the aspect of his present troubles.” 

“ Really ?” said Fledgeby. 

‘Oh yes!” Here Mrs. Lammle brought her 
handkerchief into play. ‘‘ And you know, dear 
Mr. Fledgeby—you who study the human heart 
and study the world—what an affliction it would 
be to lose position and to lose credit, when abil- 
ity to tide over a very short time might save all 

ances.’ 
pete Oh 1”? said Fledgeby. ‘‘Then you think, 
Mrs. Lammle, that if Lammle got time he 
wouldn’t burst up?—To use an expression, 


246 ' * 


os bad 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


OS) 03 PUVA Scher a » Lhe 
beat hy ee 


Se ee AGS) PES: MEE SE seu 
DG Pe en eee May 1 (dee Nes 
nek gate RR a ; 


ee 


4 
\} 
\ y 
\| | 
‘ \ 
NNN 
i AN 
\ 
SI \\ 
AN 
Ni 
yy) 
Ni 


La 


MR. FLEDGEBY DEPARTS ON HIS ERRAND OF MERCY. 


Mr, Fledgeby apologetically explained, ‘* which 
is adopted in the Money Market.” 

‘“Indeed yes. Truly, truly, yes!” 

‘“That makes all the difference,” said Fledge- 
by. ‘*I’ll make a point of seeing Riah at once.” 

‘¢ Blessings on you, dearest Mr. Fledgeby !” 

“Not at all,” said Fledgeby. She gave him 
her hand. ‘‘The hand,” said Mr. Fledgeby, 
‘of a lovely and superior-minded female is ever 
the repayment of a—” 

‘Noble action !” said Mrs. Lammle, extreme- 
ly anxious to get rid of him. 

“Tt wasn’t what I was going to say,” return- 
ed Fledgeby, who never would, under any cir- 
cumstances, accept a suggested expression, ‘‘ but 
you're very complimentary. May I imprint a— 
‘a one—upon it. Good-morning !” 

**T may depend upon your promptitude, dear- 
est Mr, Fledgeby ?” 


Said Fledgeby, looking back at the door and — 


respectfully kissing his hand, ‘* You may depend 
upon it.” 

In fact, Mr. Fledgeby sped on his errand of 
mercy through the streets at so brisk a rate that 
his feet might have been winged by all the good 
spirits that wait on Generosity. They might 
have taken up their station in his breast, too, 
for he was blithe and merry. There was quite 
a fresh trill in his voice, when, arriving at the 
counting-house in St. Mary Axe, and finding it, 


| for the moment empty, he trolled forth at the 


foot of the staircase: ‘‘ Now, Judah, what are 


you up to there?” _ 


The old man appeared, with his accustomed 
deference. ~ 

‘‘ Holloa!” said Fledgeby, falling back, with 
a wink. “You mean mischief, Jerusalem!” — 

The old man raised his eyes inquiringly. _ 


ee 
ae 


a 


won't you?” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


“Yes, you do,” said Fledgeby. “Oh, you 
sinner! Oh, you dodger! What! 


are you? Nothing will’turn you, won’t it? 
You won't be put off for another single minute, 
Ordered to immediate action by the master’s 
tone and look, the old man took up his hat from 
the little counter where it lay. | 
_.“You,have been told that he might pull 


*thréugh it, if you didn’t go in to win, Wide- 


Awake; have you?” said Fledgeby. ‘‘ And it’s 
not your game that he should pull through it; 


g@in’t it? You having got security, and there 


being enough to pay you? Oh, you Jew!” 

The old man stood irresolute and uncertain 
for a moment, as if there might be further in- 
structions for him in reserve. 

**Do I go, Sir?” he at length asked in a low 
voice. 

“* Asks me if he is going!” exclaimed Fledge- 
by. ‘Asks me, as if he didn’t know his own 
purpose! Asks me, as if he hadn’t got his hat 
on ready! Asks me, as if his sharp old eye— 
why, it cuts like a knife—wasn’t looking at his 
walking-stick by the door!” 

“Do I go, Sir?” 

*‘Do you go?” sneered Fledgeby. 
you do go. ‘Toddle, Judah!” 


* Yes, 


—— 
CHAPTER XIII. 


GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME, AND HANG HIM. 


FascrnaTION FLEpDGEBY, left alone in the 
counting-house, strolled about with his hat on 
one side, whistling, and investigating the draw- 
ers, and prying here and there for any small 
evidences of his being cheated, but could find 
none. ‘‘ Not his merit that he don’t cheat me,” 
was Mr. Fledgeby’s commentary delivered with 
a wink, ‘‘but my precaution.” He then with a 


a lazy grandeur asserted his rights as lord of Pub- 
sey and Co. by poking his cane at the stools and 


> 


_ boxes, and spitting in the fire-place, and so loi- 
_ tered royally to the window and looked out into 


the narrow street, with his small eyes just peer- 


- ing over the top of Pubsey and Co.’s blind. As 
a blind in more senses than one, it reminded 
him that he was alone in the counting-house 
with the front-door open. 


He was moving 
away to shut it, lest he should be injudiciously 
identified with the establishment, when he was 
stopped by some one coming to the door. 

‘This some one was the dolls’ dress-maker, 
with a little basket on her arm, and her crutch 
stick in her hand. Her keen eves had espied 
Mr. Fledgeby before Mr. Fledgeby had espied 
her, and he was paralyzed in his purpose of 


‘shutting her out, not so much by her approach- 


ing the door, as by her favoring him with a 
shower of nods, the instant he saw her. This 
advantage she improved by hobbling up the 
steps with such dispatch that before Mr. Fledge- 
by could take measures for her finding nobody 
at home, she was face to face with him in the 


- counting-house. 


‘Hope I see you well, Sir,” said Miss Wren. 


| “Mr. Riah in?” 


Fledgeby had dropped into a chair, in the at- 


_ titude of one waiting wearily. ‘‘I suppose he 


ae 
Ritesh ee 


You're go- 
‘ing to act upon that bill of sale at Lammle’s, 


247 | 


will be back soon,” he replied; ‘he has cut out 
and left me expecting him back, in an odd way. 
Haven’t I seen you before ?” 

“Once before—if you had your evesight,”’ re- 
plied Miss Wren; the conditional clause in an 
under-tone. 

‘* When you were carrying on some games up 
at the top of the house. I remember. How’s 
your friend ?” 

‘*I have more friends than one, Sir, I hope,” 
replied Miss Wren. ‘‘ Which friend ?” 

““ Never mind,” said Mr. Fledgeby, shutting 
up one eye, “tany of your friends, all your 
friends. Are they pretty tolerable ?” 

Somewhat confounded, Miss Wren parried the 
pleasantry, and sat down in a corner behind the 
door,*with her basket in her lap. By-and-by, 
she said, breaking a long and patient silence: 

“‘T beg your pardon, Sir, but I am used to 
find Mr. Riah at this time, and so I generally 
come at this time. I only want to buy my poor 
little two shillings’ worth of waste. Perhaps 
you'll kindly let me have it, and Ill trot off to 
my work.” 

‘*7 let you have it?” said Fledgeby, turning 
his head toward her; for he had been sitting 
blinking at the light, and feeling his cheek, 
“Why, you don’t really suppose that I have 
any thing to do with the place, or the business ; 
do you?” 

‘‘Suppose?” exclaimed Miss Wren. ‘*He 
said, that day, you were the master !” 

‘“The old cock in black said? Riah said? 
Why, he’d say any thing.” 

‘¢Well; but you said so. too,” returned Miss 
Wren. ‘Or at least you took on like the mas- 
ter, and didn’t contradict him.” 

‘¢One of his dodges,” said Mr. Fledgeby, with 
a cool and contemptuous shrug. ‘‘ He’s made 
of dodges. He said to me, ‘Come up to the 
top of the house, Sir, and I’ll show you a hand- 
some girl. But I shall call you the master.’ 
So I went up to the top of the house and he 
showed me the handsome girl (very well worth 
looking at she was), and I was called the mas- 
ter. I don’t know why. I dare say he don’t. 
He loves a dodge for its own sake; being,” 
added Mr. Fledgeby, after casting about for an 
expressive phrase, “the dodgerest of all the 
dodgers.” 

‘Oh my head!” cried the dolls’ dress-maker, 
holding it with both her hands, as if it were 
cracking, ‘* You can’t mean what you say.” 

“I can, my little woman,” retorted Fledgeby, 
‘and I do, I assure you.’” att 

This repudiation was not only an act of de- 
liberate policy on Fledgeby’s part, in case of his 
being surprised by any other caller, but was also 
a retort upon Miss Wren for her over-sharpness, 
and a pleasant instance of his humor as regarded 
the old Jew. ‘He has got a bad name as an 
old Jew, and he is paid for the use of it, and 
I'll have my money’s worth out of him.” This 
was Fledgeby’s habitual reflection in the way of 
business, and it was sharpened just now by the 
old man’s presuming to have a secret from him: 
though of the secret itself, as annoying some- 
body else whom he disliked, he by no means 
disapproved. 

Miss Wren with a fallen countenance sat be- 
hind the door looking thoughtfully at the ground, 
and the Jong and patient silence had again set 


248 


in for some time, when the expression of Mr. 
Fledgeby’s face betokened that through the up- 
per portion of the door, which was of glass, he 
saw some one faltering on the brink of the 
counting-house. Presently there was a rustle 
and a tap, and then some more rustling and an- 
other tap. Fledgeby taking no notice, the door 
was at length softly opened, and the dried face 
of a mild little elderly gentleman looked in. 

“Mr. Riah ?” said this visitor, very politely. 

*“*T am waiting for him, Sir,” returned Mr. 
Fledgeby. ‘‘He went out and left me here. I 
expect him back every minute. Perhaps you 
had better take a chair.” 

The gentleman took a chair, and put his hand 
to his forehead, as if he were in a melancholy 
frame of mind. Mr. Fledgeby eyed him aside, 
and seemed to relish his attitude. 

‘A fine day, Sir,” remarked Fledgeby. 

The little dried gentleman was so occupied 
with his own depressed reflections that he did 
not notice the remark until the sound of Mr. 
Fledgeby’s voice had died out of the counting- 
house. Then he started, and said: ‘‘I beg 
your pardon, Sir. I fear you spoke to me?” 

“IT said,” remarked Fledgeby, a little louder 
than before, ‘‘it was a fine day.” 

“T beg your pardon. I beg your pardon. 
Wea? 

Again the little dried gentleman put his hand 
to his forehead, and again Mr. Fledgeby seemed 
to enjoy his doing it. When the gentleman 
changed his attitude with a sigh, Fledgeby spake 
with a grin. 

‘“¢ Mr. Twemlow, I think ?” 

The dried gentleman seemed much surprised. 

‘* Had the pleasure of dining with you at 


Lammle’s,”’ said Fledgeby. ‘‘Even have the 
honor of being a connection of yours. An un- 
expected sort of place this to meet in; but one 


never knows, when one gets into the City, what 
people one may knock up against. I hope vou 
have your health, and are enjoying yourself.” 

There might have been a touch of imperti- 
nence in the last words; on the other hand, it 
might have been but the native grace of Mr. 
Fledgeby’s manner. Mr. Fledgeby sat on a 
stool with a foot on the rail of another stool, and 
his hat on. Mr. Twemlow had uncovered on 
looking in at the door, and remained so. 

Now the conscientious Twemlow, knowing 
what he had done to thwart the gracious Fledge- 
by, was particularly disconcerted by this en- 
counter. He was as ill at ease as a gentleman 
well could be. He felt himself bouné to con- 
duct himself stiffly toward) Fledgeby, and he 
made him a distant bow. Fledgeby made his 
small eyes smaller in taking special note of his 
manner. ‘The dolls’ dress-maker sat in her cor- 
ner behind the door, with her eyes on the ground 
and her hands folded on her basket, holding her 
crutch-stick between them, and appearing to 
take no heed of any thing. 

‘‘He’s a long time,” muttered Mr. Fledgeby, 
looking at his watch. ‘What time may you 
make it, Mr. Twemlow ?” 

Mr. Twemlow maile it ten minutes past twelve, 
Sir. 

‘‘ As near as a toucher,” assented Fledgeby. 
“‘T hope, Mr. T'wemlow, your business here may 
be of a more agreeable character than mine.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” said Mr. Twemlow. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. Pac ae 
Fledgeby again made iis small eyes 1 nna 


as he glanced with great complacency at Twem- 
low, who was timorously tapping the table with 
a folded letter, . 

‘‘ What I know of Mr. Riah,” said Fledgeby, 
with a very disparaging utterance of. his name, 
‘*Jeads me to believe that this is about the shop 
for disagreeable business. I have always found 
him the bitingest and tightest screw in London,” 

Mr. Twemlow acknowledged the remark with 
a little distant bow. It evidently made him 
nervous. : 

‘¢So much so,” pursued Fledgeby, “ that if it 
wasn't to be true to a friend, nobody should 
catch me waiting here a single minute. But 
if you have friends in adversity, stand by them. 
That’s what I say and act up to.” 

The equitable Twemlow felt that this senti- 
ment, irrespective of the utterer, demanded his 
cordial assent. ‘You are very right, Sir,” he 
rejoined with spirit. “You indicate the gener 
ous and manly course.’ ; 

‘*Glad to have your approbation,” returned 
Fledgeby. ‘‘It’sa coincidence, Mr; Twemlow ;” 
here he descended from his perch, and saunter- 
ed toward him; 
ing by to-day are the friends at whose house I 
met you! The Lammles. She’s a very taking 
and agreeable woman ?” 

Conscience smote the gentle Twemlow pale. 
‘*Yes,” he said. ‘* She is.” 

“And when she appealed to me this morn- 
ing to come and try what I could do to pacify 
their creditor, this Mr. Riah—that I certainly 
have gained some little influence with in trans- 
acting business for another friend, but nothing 
like so much as she supposes—and when a wo- 
man like that spoke to me as her dearest Mr. 
Fledgeby, and shed tears—why what could I 
do, you know ?” 

Twemlow gasped ‘‘ Nothing but céme.” 

‘*Nothing but come. And so I came. But 
why,’ said Fledgeby, putting his hands in his 
pockets and counterfeiting deep meditation, 
‘¢why Riah should have started up, when I told 
him that the Lammles entreated him to hold 
over a Bill of Sale he has on all their effects; 
and why he should have cut out, saying he 
would be. back directly; and why he should 
have left me here alone so long; I can not un- 
derstand.” 

The chivalrous Twemlow, Knight of the Sim-: 
ple Heart, was not in a condition to offer any 
suggestion. He was too penitent, too remorse- 
ful. For the first time in his life he had done 
an underhanded action, and he had done wrong. 
He had secretly interposed against this confiding 
young man, for no better real reason than be- 
cause the young man’s ways were not his ways. 

But the confiding young man proceeded to 
heap coals of fire on his sensitive head. 


‘‘T beg your pardon, Mr. Twemlow; you see — 


IT am acquainted with the nature of the af- 
fairs that are transacted here. Is there any 
thing I can do for you here? You have always 
been brought up as a gentleman, and never as 
a man of business ;” another touch of possible 
impertinence in this place; ‘‘and perhaps you — 
are but a poor man of business. What else is 
to be expected !”’ 

‘‘T am even a poorer man of incisions than I 
am a man, Sir,” returned Twemlow, ‘and ka 


‘that the friends I am stand 


a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 


* could hardly express my deficiency in a stronger 


ry 
ih 


4 


way. I[ really do not so much as clearly under- 
stand my position in the matter on which I am 


brought here. But there are reasons which make 


me very delicate of accepting your assistance. I 


_ am greatly, greatly, disinclined to profit byit. I 
- don’t deserve it.” , 


_ Good childish creature! Condemned to a pas- 
sage through the world by such narrow little 
dimly-lighted ways, and picking up so few specks 
er spots on the road! 

** Perhaps,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘ you may be a 
little proud of entering on the topic—having been 
brought up as a gentleman.” 

** It’s not that, Sir,” returned Twemlow, ‘‘ it’s 
not that. I hope I distinguish between true pride 


-. and false pride.” 


By! 


- 


__ know one from t’other. 
_ place where even a man of business needs his 
wits about him; and if mine can be of any use 


‘*] have no pride at all, myself,” said Fledge- 
by, ‘‘and perhaps I don’t cut things so fine as to 
But I know this is a 


to you here, you’re welcome to them.” 

“‘You are very good,” said Twemlow, falter- 
ing. ‘‘But lam most unwilling—” 

“‘T don’t, you know,’’ proceeded Fledgeby, 
with an ill-favored glance, ‘‘ entertain the vanity 
of supposing that my wits could be of any use to 
you in society, but they might be here. You 
cultivate society and society cultivates you, but 
Mr. Riah’s not society. In society, Mr. Riah is 
kept dark ; eh, Mr. T'wemlow ?” 

Twemlow, much disturbed, and with his hand 
fluttering about his forehead, replied: ‘‘ Quite 
true.” 

The confiding young man besought him to 
‘state his case. The innocent Twemlow; expect- 
ing Fledgeby to be astounded by what he should 
unfold, and not for an instant conceiving the 
possibility of its happening every day, but treat- 
ing of it ass terrible phenomenon occurring in 
the course of ages, related how that he had had 


_ .a deceased friend, a married civil officer with a 


family, who had wanted money for change of 
place on change of post, and how he, Twemlow, 
had ‘‘ given him his name,” with the usual, but 
in the eyes of Twemlow almost incredible result 
that he had been left to repay what he had never 
had. How, in the course of years, he had re- 
‘duced the principal by trifling sums, ‘* having,” 
said Twemlow, ‘‘ always to observe great econo- 
my, being in the enjoyment of a fixed income 
limited in extent, and that depending on the mu- 
nificence of a certain nobleman,” and had always 
pinched the full interest out of himself with punc- 
tual pinches. How he had come, in course of 
time, to look upon this one only debt of his life as a 
regular quarterly drawback, and no worse, when 
“*his name’? had some way fallen into the pos- 


session of Mr. Riah, who had sent him notice to 


redeem it by paying up in full, in one plump 
sum, or take tremendous consequences. ‘This, 
with hazy remembrances of how he had been 
earried to some office to ‘* confess judgment” (as 
he recollected the phrase), and how he had been 
carried to another office where his life was as- 
sured for somebody not wholly unconnected with 


the sherry trade whom he remembered by the 


remarkable circumstance that he had a Stradua- 


rius violin to dispose of, and also a Madonna, 
formed the sum and substance of Mr. Twemlow’s 


‘narrative. ‘Through which stalked the shadow 


16 


249 


of the awful Snigsworth, eyed afar off by money- 
lenders as Security in the Mist, and menacing 
Twemlow with his baronial truncheon. 

To all, Mr. Fledgeby listened with the modest 
gravity becoming a confiding young man who 
knew it all beforehand, and, when it was finished, 
seriously shook his head. ‘I don’t like, Mr. 
Twemlow,” said Fledgeby, ‘I don’t like Riah’s 
ealling in the principal. If he’s determined to 
call it in, it must come.” 

‘** But supposing, Sir,” said Twemlow, down- 
cast, ‘‘that it can’t come?” 

‘‘Then,” retorted Fledgeby, ‘‘you must go, 
you know.” 

‘** Where?” asked Twemlow, faintly. 

‘To prison,” returned Fledgeby. _Whereat 
Mr. 'T'wemlow leaned his innocent head upon his 
hand, and moaned a little moan of distress and 
disgrace. 

‘* However,” said Fledgeby, appearing to 
pluck up his spirits, ‘‘ we’ll hope it’s not so bad 
as that comes to. If you'll allow me, I'll men- 
tion to Mr. Riah when he comes in, who you are, 
and [ll tell him you’re my friend, and I’]1 say 
my say for you, instead of your saying it for 
yourself; I may be able-to do it in a more busi~ 
ness-like way. You won’t consider it a liberty ?” 

“JT thank you again and again, Sir,” said 
Twemlow. ‘‘I am strong, strongly, disinclined 
to avail myself of your generosity, though my 
helplessness yields. For I can not but feel that 
I—to put it in the mildest form of speech—that 
I have done nothing to deserve it.” 

‘¢ Where can he be?” muttered Fledgeby, re- 
ferring to his watch again. ‘* What can he have 
gone out for? Did you ever see him, Mr. 
Twemlow ?” 

“¢ Never.” 

‘s He is a thorough Jew to look at, but he is 
a more thorough Jew to deal with. He’s worst 
when he’s quiet. If he’s quiet, I shall take it as 
a very bad sign. Keep your eye upon him when 
he comes in, and, if he’s quiet, don’t be hopeful. 
Here he is!—he looks quiet.” 

With these words, which had the effect of 
causing the harmless Twemlow painful agita- 
tion, Mr. Fledgeby withdrew to his former post, 
and the old man entered the counting-house. 

‘Why, Mr. Riah,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘ I thought 
you were lost!” 

The old man, glancing at the stranger, stood 
stock-still. He perceived that his master was 
leading up to the orders he was to take, and he 
waited to understand them. 

‘‘T really thought,” repeated Fledgeby slowly, 
‘that you were lost, Mr. Riah. Why, now I 
look at you—but no, you can’t have done it; no, 
you can’t have done it !”’ : 

Hat in hand, the old man lifted his head, and 
looked distressfully at Fledgeby, as seeking to 
know what new moral burden he was to bear, 

‘You can’t have rushed ont to get the start 
of every body else, and put in that bill of sale at 
Lammile’s?” said Fledgeby. ‘‘ Say you haven't, 
Mr. Riah.”’ : 

‘¢ Sir, I have,” replied the old man in a low 
voice. . 

‘©Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby. ‘‘ Tut, tut, 
tut! Dear, dear, dear! Well! I knew you 
were a hard customer, Mr. Riah, but I never 
thought you were as hard as that.” : 

‘‘ Sir,” said the old man, with great uneasi- 


250 


ness, ‘‘I do as I am directed. I am not the 
principal here. Jam but the agent of a supe- 
rior, and I have no choice, no power.” 

‘¢Don’t say so,” retorted Fledgeby, secretly 
exultant as the old man stretched out his hands, 
with a shrinking action of defending. himself 
against the sharp construction of the two observ- 
ers. ‘‘Don’t play the tune of the trade, Mr. 
Riah. You’ve a right to get in your debts, if 
you're determined to do it, but don’t pretend 
what every one in your line regularly pretends. 
At least, don’t do it to me. Why should yon, 
Mr. Riah? You know I know all about you.” 

The old man clasped the skirt of his long 
coat with his disengaged hand, and directed a 
wistful look at Fledgeby. 

‘¢And don’t,” said Fledgeby, ‘‘ don’t, I en- 
treat you as a favor, Mr. Riah, be so devilish 
meek, for I know what'll follow if you are. 
Look here, Mr. Riah. This gentleman is Mr. 
Twemlow.” 

The Jew turned to him and bowed. That 
-poor lamb bowed in return; polite, and terri- 
fied. 

‘¢T have made such a failure,” proceeded 
Fledgeby, ‘in trying to do any thing with you 
for my friend Lammle, that I’ve hardly a hope 
of doing any thing with you for my friend (and 
connection indeed) Mr. Twemlow.. But I do 
think that if you would do a favor for any body, 
you would for me, and I won’t fail for want of 
trying, and I’ve passed my promise to Mr. Twem- 
low besides. Now, Mr. Riah, here is Mr. Twem- 
low. Always good for his interest, always com- 
ing up to time, always paying his little way. 
Now, why should you press Mr. Twemlow? You 
can’t have any spite against Mr. Twemlow! 
Why not be easy with Mr. Twemlow ?” 

The old man looked into Fledgeby’s little eyes 
for any sign of leave to be easy with Mr. Twem- 
low; but there was no sign in them. 

‘‘Mr. Twemlow is no connection of yours, 
Mr. Riah,” said Fledgeby; ‘‘ you can’t want to 
be even with him for having through life gone 
in for a gentleman and hung on to his Family. 
If Mr. Twemlow has a contempt for business, 
what can it matter to you ?” 

‘¢ But pardon me,” interposed the gentle vic- 
tim, ‘‘ I have not, I should consider it presump- 
tion.” 

‘‘There, Mr. Riah!’ said Fledgeby, ‘‘isn’t 
that handsomely said? Come! Make terms 
with me for Mr. Twemlow.” 

The old man looked again for any sign of 
permission to spare the poor little gentleman. 
No. Mr. Fledgeby meant him to be racked. 

‘‘T am very sorry, Mr. Twemlow,” said Riah. 
‘*T have my instructions. I am invested with 
no authority for diverging from them. The 
money must be paid.” 

**In full and slap down, do you mean, Mr. 
Riah ?” asked Fledgeby, to make things quite 
explicit. 

“In full, Sir, and at once,’’ was Riah’s an- 
swer. 

Mr. Fledgeby shook his head deploringly at 
Twemlow, and mutely expressed in reference to 
the venerable figure standing before him with 
eyes upon the ground: ‘* What a Monster of 
an Israelite this is!” 

‘‘Mr. Riah,” said Fledgeby. 

The old man lifted up his eyes once more to 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. . 


mi k oy 
nt ; ie 
api 


the little eyes in Mr. Fledgeby’s head, wit! 
some reviving hope that the sign might be com- 
ing yet. a ch 

‘¢Mr. Riah, it’s of no use my holding back 
the fact. There’s a certain great party in the 
back-ground in Mr. Twemlow’s case, and you 
know it.” 

‘¢ T-know it,” the old man admitted. 

‘¢Now, Ill put it as a plain point of business. ' 
Mr. Riah. Are you fully determined (as a plain 
point of business) either to have that said great 
party’s security, or that said great party’s mon- 
e rg 

ently determined,’ answered Riah, as he — 
read his master’s face, and learned the book. 

‘“ Not at all caring for, and indeed as it seems . 
to me rather enjoying,” said Fledgeby, with pe- 
euliar unction, ‘‘the precious kick-up and row ~ 
that will come off between Mr. Twemlow and ~ 
the said great party ?” 

This required no answer, and received none. 
Poor Mr. 'wemlow, who had betrayed the keen- 
est mental terrors since his noble kinsman loomed — 
in the perspective, rose with a sigh to take his 
departure. ‘‘I thank you very much, Sir,” he 
said, offering Fledgeby his feverish hand. ‘* You 
have done me an unmerited service. Thank you, 
thank you!” 

‘¢Don’t mention it,” answered Fledgeby. 
**Tt’s a failure so far, but Vl stay behind and — 
take another touch at Mr. Riah.” 

‘*Do not deceive yourself, Mr. Twemlow,” 
said the Jew, then addressing him directly for 
the first time. ‘*'There is no hope for you. You 
must expect no leniency here. You must pay in 
full, and you can not pay too promptly, or you 
will be put to heavy charges. ‘Trust nothing to 
me, Sir. Money, money, money.” When he 
had said these words in an emphatic manner, he 
acknowledged Mr. Twemlow’s still polite motion 
of his head, and that amiable little worthy took ~ 
his departure in the lowest spirits. 3 

Fascination Fledgeby was in such a merry — 
vein when the counting-house was cleared of — 
him, that he had nothing for it but to go to the 
window, and lean his arms on the frame of the — 
blind, and have his silent laugh out, with his 
back to his subordinate. When he turned round 
again with a composed countenance, his subor- 
dinate still stood in the same place, and the — 
dolls’ dress-maker sat behind the door with a . 
look of horror. 

‘¢‘Halloa?” cried Mr. Fledgeby, ‘‘you’re for- — 
getting this young Jady, Mr. Riah, and she has ~ 
been waiting long enough too. Sell her her — 
waste, please, and give her good measure if you — 
ean make up your mind to do the liberal thing ~ 
for once.” a 

He looked on for a time, as the Jew filled her ~ 
little basket with such scraps as she was used to ~ 
buy; but, his merry vein coming on again, he 
was obliged to turn round to the window once 
more, and lean his arms on the blind. 

‘‘There, my Cinderella dear,” said the old — 
man in a whisper, and with a worn-out look, ~ 
“the basket’s full now. Bless you! And get — 
you gone !”’ 7 

“Don’t call me your Cinderella dear,” re- — 
turned Miss Wren. ‘Oh you cruel godmo-— 
ther !” : ee 

She shook that emphatie little forefinger of — 
hers in his face at parting, as earnestly and re- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ij proachfully as she had ever shaken it at her grim 

- old child at home. 

_, ‘You are not the godmother at all!” said she. 
“You are the Wolf in the Forest, the wicked 
Wolf! And if ever my dear Lizzie is sgld and 
betrayed, I shall know: who sold and betrayed 
her !” “i 

! —___>—_—_ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


' MR. WEGG PREPARES A GRINDSTONE FOR MR. 
BOFFIN’S NOSE. 


Havine assisted at a few more expositions of 
the lives of Misers, Mr. Venus became almost in- 
dispensable to the evenings at the Bower. The 
circumstance of having another listener to the 
wonders unfolded by Wegg, or, as it were, an- 
other calculator to cast up the guineas found in 
tea-pots, chimneys, racks, and mangers, and other 
such banks. of deposit, seemed greatly to height- 
en Mr. Boffin’s enjoyment; while Silas Wegg, 
for his part, though of a jealous temperament 
which might under ordinary circumstances have 
resented the anatomist’s getting into favor, was 
‘80 very anxious to keep his eye on that gentle- 
man—lest, being too much left to himself, he 
should be tempted to play any tricks with the 
precious document in his keeping—that he nev- 
er lost an opportunity of commending him to 
Mr. Boffin’s notice as a third party whose com- 
pany was much to be desired. Another friend- 
ly demonstration toward him Mr. Wegg now 
regularly gratified. Afier each sitting was over, 
and the patronthad departed, Mr. Wegg invari- 
ably saw Mr. Venus home. ‘To be suré, he as 
invariably requested to be refreshed witlya sight 
of the paper in which he was a joint proprietor ; 
but he never failed to remark that it was the 
great pleasure he derived from Mr. Venus’s im- 
proving society which had insensibly lured him 
round to Clerkenwell again, and that, finding 
himself once more attracted to the spot by. the 
social powers of Mr. V., he would beg leave to 
go through that little incidental procedure, as a 
matter of form. ‘‘ For well I know, Sir,” Mr. 
Wegg would add, ‘‘that a man of your delicate 
mind would wish to be checked off whenever the 
opportunity arises, and it is not for me to balk 

your feelings.” 

A certain rustiness in Mr. Venus, which nev- 
er became so lubricated by the oil of Mr. Wegg 
but that he turned under the screw in a creak- 
ing and stiff manner, was very noticeable at 
about this period. While assisting at the literary 
evenings he even went so far, on two or three oc- 
casions, as to correct Mr. Wegg when he gross- 
ly mispronounced a word, or made nonsense of 
& passage; insomuch that Mr. Wegg took to 

_ surveying his course in the day, and to making 
arrangements for getting round rocks at night 
instead of running straight upon them. Of the 

_ slightest anatomical reference he became partic- 
ularly shy, and, if he saw a bone ahead, would 
go any distance out of his way rather than men- 
tion it by name. 

The adverse destinies ordained that one even- 
ing Mr. Weégg’s laboring bark became beset by 

_ polysyllables, and embarrassed among a perfect 
archipelago of hard words. It being necessary 
to take soundings every minute, and to feel the 
way with the greatest caution, Mr. Wegg’s at- 


ita, 


tention was fully employed. 
taken of this dilemma by Mr, Venus to pass a 
scrap of paper into Mr. Boffin’s hand, and lay 
his finger on his own lip. | 


ae 
a 


251 


Advantage was 


When Mr. Boftin got home at night he found 


that the paper contained Mr. Venus’s card and 
these words: ‘*Should be glad to be honored 


with a call respecting business of your own, 
about dusk on an early evening.” 

The very next evening saw Mr. Boffin peep- 
ing in at the preserved frogs in Mr. Venus’s 
shop-window, and saw Mr. Venus espying Mr. 
Bottin with the readiness of one on the alert, 
and beckoning that gentleman into his interior, 
Responding, Mr. Boffin was invited to seat him- 
self on the box of human miscellanies before the 
fire, and did so, looking round the place with 
admiring eyes. The fire being low and fitful, 
and the dusk gloomy, the whole stock seemed 
to be winking and blinking with both eyes, as 
Mr. Venus did. The French gentleman, though 
he had no eyes, was not at all behindhand, but 
appeared, as the flame rose and fell, to open 
and shut his no eyes, with the regularity of the 
glass-eyed dogs and ducks and birds. The big- 
headed babies were equally obliging in lending 
their grotesque aid to the general effect. 

‘* You see, Mr. Venus, I’ve lost no time,” said 
Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ Here I am.” 

‘‘ Here you are, Sir,” assented Mr. Venus. 

“*T don’t like secrecy,” pursued Mr. Boftin— 
‘Cat least, not in a general way I don’t—but I 
dare say you'll show me good reason for being 
secret so far.” 

‘¢T think I shall, Sir,” returned Venus. | 

‘¢Good,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ You don’t ex- 
pect Wegg, I take it for granted ?” 

‘“No, Sir. I expect no one but the present 
company.” 

Mr. Boffin glanced about him, as accepting 
under that inclusive denomination the French 
gentleman and the circle in which he didn’t 
move, and repeated, ‘‘ The present company.” 

‘¢ Sir,” said Mr. Venus, ‘‘ before entering upon 
business, I shall have to ask you for your word 
and honor that we are in confidence.” 

‘‘Let’s wait a bit and understand what the 
expression means,” answered Mr. Boffin. ‘In 
confidence for how long? In confidence forever 
and a day ?” 

‘T take your hint, Sir,” said Venus; ‘‘you 
think you might consider the business, when 
you came to know it, to be of a nature incom- 
patible with confidence on your part?” . 

“T might,” said Mr. Boffin, with a cautions 
look. 

‘True, Sir. Well, Sir,” observed Venus, aft- 
er clutching at his dusty hair, to brighten his 
ideas, ‘‘let us put it another way. I open the 
business with you, relying upon your honor not 
to do any thing in it, and not to mention me in 
it, without my knowledge.” 

‘That sounds fair,” said Mr. Boffin. “I 
agree to that.” 

‘¢T have your word and honor, Sir ?” 

“My good fellow,” retorted Mr. Boffin, “you 
have my word; and how you can have that, 
without my honor too, I don’t know. I’ve sort- 
ed a lot of dust in my time, but I never knew the 
two things go into separate heaps.” 

This remark seemed rather to abash Mr. Ve- 


nus. He hesitated, and said, “‘ Very true, Sar 3" 


252 . OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


and again, ‘Very true, Sir,” before resuming | I am ever called upon for the trath, I tell it, but j 


i! 


the thread of his discourse. 

“ Mr. Boftin, if I confess to you that I fell 
into a proposal of which you were the sub- 
ject, and of which you oughtn’t to have been 
the subject, you will allow me to mention, and 
will please take into favorable consideration, that 
I was in a crushed state of mind ‘at the time.” 

The Golden Dustman, with his hands folded 
on the top of his stout stick, with his chin rest- 
ing upon them, and with something leering and 
whimsical in his eyes, gave a nod, and said, 
** Quite so, Venus.” 

‘+ That proposal, Sir, was a conspiring breach 
of your confidence, to such an extent, that I 
ought at once: to have made it known to you. 
But I didn’t, Mr. Boffin, and I fell into it.” 

Without moving eye or finger Mr. Boffin gave 
another nod, and placidly repeated, ‘‘ Quite so, 
Venus.” 

“‘ Not that I was ever hearty in it, Sir,” the 
penitent antagonist went on, ‘‘or that I ever 
viewed myself with any thing but‘reproach for 
having turned out of the paths of science into 
the paths of—’’ He was going to say ‘‘ villainy,” 
but, unwilling to press too hard upon himself, 
substituted with great emphasis—‘* Weggery.”’ 

Placid and whimsical of look as ever, Mr. 
Boffin answered: ‘‘ Quite so, Venus.” 

‘¢ And now, Sir,” said Venus, ‘‘ having pre- 
pared your mind in the rough, I will articulate 
the details.” With which brief professional ex- 
ordium, he entered on the history of the friend- 
ly move, and truly recounted it. One might 


have thought that it would have extracted some: 


show of surprise or anger, or other emotion, 
from Mr. Boffin, but it extracted nothing beyond 
his former comment: ‘‘ Quite so, Venus.” 

‘*T have astonished you, Sir, I believe ?” said 
Mr. Venus, pausing dubiously. 

Mr. Boffin simply answered as aforesaid: 
** Quite so, Venus.”’ 

By this time the astonishment was all on the 
other side. It did not, however, so continue. 
For, when Venus passed to Wegg’s discovery, 
and from that to their having both seen Mr. 
Boffin dig up the Dutch bottle, that gentleman 
changed color, changed his attitude, became ex- 
tremely restless, and ended (when Venus ended) 
by being in a state of manifest anxiety, trepida- 
tion, and confusion. 

‘*Now, Sir,” said Venus, finishing off; “you 
best know what was in that Dutch bottle, and 
why you dug it up, and took it away. I don’t 
pretend to know any thing more about it than I 
saw. All I know is this: I am proud of my 
calling after all (though it has been attended by 
one dreadful drawback which has told upon my 
heart, and almost equally upon my skeleton), 
and I mean to live by my calling. Putting the 
sume meaning into other words, I do not mean 
to turn a single dishonest penny by this affair. 
As the best amends I can make you for having 
ever gone into it, I make known to you, as a 
warning, what Wegg has found out. My opin- 
ion is, that Wegg is not to be silenced at a mod- 
est price, and I build that opinion on his begin- 
ning to dispose of your property the moment he 
knew his power. Whether it’s worth your while 
to silence him at any price, you will decide for 
yourself, and take your measures accordingly. 
As far as I am concerned, [have no price. If 


I want to do no more than I have now done and — 
ended.” Be Me. 

‘“Thank’ee, Venus P’ said Mr. Boffin, with a 
hearty grip of his hand; ‘‘thank’ee, Venus, 
thank’ee, Venus!” And then walked up and 
down the little shop in great agitation. ‘But 
look here, Venus,” he by-and-by resumed, nerv- 
ously sitting down again; “if I have to buy: 
Wegg up, I sha’n’t buy him any cheaper for 
your being ovt of it. Instead of his having half 
the money—it was to have been half, I suppose ? 
Share and share alike ?” 

‘‘Tt was to have been half, Sir,” answered 
Venus. : 

‘Instead of that, he’ll now have all. I shall 
pay the same, if not more. For you tell me 
he’s an unconscionable dog, a ravenous rascal,” 

“ He is,” said Venus, 

“Don’t you think, Venus,” insinuated Mr. 
Boftin, after looking at the fire for a while— 
**don’t you feel as if—you might like to pretend 
to be in it till Wegg was brought up, and then 
ease your mind by handing over to me what you 
had made believe to pocket ?” 

** No, Idon’t, Sir,” returned Venus, very pos- 
itively. 

‘‘Not to make amends?” 
Boffin. 

‘‘No, Sir.. It seems to me, after maturely 
thinking it over, that the best amends for hav- 
ing got out of the square is to get back into the 
square.” : 

‘¢ Humph !” mused Mr. Boffin. 
say the square, you mean—” . * 

“T mean,” said Venus, stoutly and shortly, 
“the right.” 

‘‘Tt appears to me,” said Mr. Boffin, grum- 
bling over the fire in an injured manner, “ that 
the right is with me, if it’s any where. I have 
much more right to the old man’s money than 
the Crown can ever have. What was the Crown 
to him except the King’s Taxes? Whereas, me 
and my wife, we was all in all to him.” 

Mr. Venus, with his head upon his hands, 
rendered melancholy by the contemplation of 
Mr. Boffin’s avarice, only murmured to steep 
himself in the luxury of that frame of mind: 
‘She did not wish so to regard herself, nor yet 
to be so regarded.” 

‘¢And how am I to live,” asked Mr. Boffin, 
piteonsly, ‘‘if ’m to be going buying fellows up 
ont of the little that I’ve got? And how am [ 
to set about it? -When am [I to get my money 
ready? When am I to make a bid? Yeu: 
haven’t told me when he threatens to drop down 
upon me.” 

Venus explained under what conditions, and 
with what views, the dropping down upon Mr. 
Boffin was held. over until the Mounds should be 
cleared away. Mr. Boffin listened attentively. 
‘*T suppose,” said he, with a gleam of hope, 
‘‘there’s no doubt about the genuineness and 
date of this confounded will ?” 

‘ None whatever,” said Mr. Venus. 

‘Where might it be deposited at present?” 
asked Mr. Boffin, in a wheedling tcne. 

“¢Tt’s in my possession, Sir.” ; 

“Ts it?” he cried, with great eagerness, — 
‘*Now, for any liberal sum of money that could — 
a agreed upon, Venus, would you put it in the © 

re?” ae 


insinuated Mr. 


‘¢ When you 


> A 


Me a ‘Na, 


A 


*—HSON §.NITGOE “UN YOT ANOLSANIUD V SUUVAAYK NOTM “IN 


' 


‘¢No, Sir, I wouldn’t,” interrupted Mr. Venus. 

‘¢ Nor pass it over to me?” 

‘¢That would be the same thing. No, Sir,” 
said Mr. Venus. 

The Golden Dustman seemed about to pursue 
these questions, when a stumping noise was 
heard outside, coming toward the door. ‘‘ Hush! 
here’s Wegg!” said Venus. ‘‘Get behind the 
young alligator in the corner, Mr. Boffin, and 
judge him for yourself. I won’t light a candle 
till he’s gone; there’ll only be the glow of the 
fire; Wegg’s well acquainted with the alliga- 
tor, and he won’t take particular notice of him. 
Draw your legs in, Mr. Boffin, at present I see 
a pair of shoes at the end of his tail. Get your 
head well behind his smile, Mr. Boffin, and you'll 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 253 


Woe 


: Zz. g 
Z CEP ILZ 


“ir © 


lie comfortable there; you'll find plenty of room 
behind his smile. He’s a little dusty, but he’s 
very like you in tone. Are you right, Sint. 

Mr. Boffin had but whispered an affirmative 
response, when Wegg came stumpingin. ‘ Part- 
ner,” said that gentleman in a sprightly manner, 
“ how’s yourself?” 

‘‘Tolerable,” returned Mr. Venus. “ Not 
much to boast of.”’ 

‘‘In-deed!” said Wegg: ‘‘sorry, partner, that 
you're not picking up faster, but your soul’s too 
large for your body, Sir; that’s where it Is. 
And how’s our stock in trade, partner? pate 
bind, safe find, partner? Is that about it ? 

‘‘Do you wish to see it?” asked Venus. | 

‘‘Tf you please, partner,” said Weegs, rubbing 


ba 


254 


his hands. ‘‘I wish to see it jintly with your- 
self. Or, in similar words to some that was set 
to music some time back: 
‘TI wish you to see it with your eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine.’ ” 
Turning his back and turning a key, Mr. Ve- 
nus produced the document, holding on by his 
usual corner. Mr. Wegg, holding on by the 
opposite corner, sat down on the seat so lately 
vacated by Mr. Boffin, and looked itover. ‘* All 
right, Sir,” he slowly and unwillingly admitted, 
in his reluctance to loose his hold, ‘‘all right!” 
And greedily watched his partner as he turned 
his back again, and turned his key again. 
‘¢There’s nothing new, I suppose?” said Ve- 
nus, resuming his low chair behind the counter. 
‘¢Yes there is, Sir,” replied Wegg; ‘‘ there 
was something new this morning. That foxy 
old grasper and griper—” , 
‘¢Mr. Boffin?” inquired Venus, with a glance 
toward the alligator’s yard or two of smile. 
_ **Mister be blowed!” cried Wegg, yielding to 

his honest indignation. ‘‘Boffin. Dusty Bof- 
fin. That foxy old grunter and grinder, Sir, 
turns into the yard this morning, to meddle 
with our property, a menial tool of his own, a 
young man by the name of Sloppy. Ecod, when 
. I say to him, ‘What do you want here, young 
man? This is a private yard,’ he pulls out a 
paper from Boffin’s other blackguard, the one 
I was passed over for. ‘This is to authorize 
Sloppy to overlook the carting and to watch the 
work.’ That’s pretty strong, Ithink, Mr. Venus ?” 

‘“¢Remember he doesn’t know yet of our claim 
on the property,” suggested Venus. 

‘¢Then he must have a hint of it,” said Wegg, 
‘Cand a strong one that’ll jog his terrors a bit. 
Give him an inch, and he'll take an ell. Let 
him alone this time, and what'll he do with our 
property next? I tell you what, Mr. Venus; it 
comes to this; I must be overbearing with Bof- 
fin, or I shall fly into several pieces. I can’t 
contain myself when I look at him. Every 
time I see him putting his hand in his pocket, 
I see him putting it into my pocket. Every 
time I hear him jingling his money, I hear him 
taking liberties with my money. Flesh and 
blood can’t bear it. No,’ said Mr. Wegg, great- 
ly exasperated, ‘‘and I'll go further. A wood- 
en leg can’t bear it!” 

‘But, Mr. Wegg,” urged Venus, ‘it was 
your own idea that he should not be exploded 
upon till the Mounds were carted away.” 

‘¢ But it was likewise my idea, Mr. Venus,” 
retorted Wegg, ‘‘that if he came sneaking and 
sniffing about the property, he should be threat- 
ened, given to understand that he has no right 
to it, and be made our slave. Wasn’t that my 
idea, Mr. Venus ?” 

“Tt certainly was, Mr. Wegg.” 

‘‘Tt certainly was, as you say, partner,” as- 


sented Wegg, put into a better humor by the. 


ready admission. ‘‘Very well. I consider his 
planting one of his menial tools in the yard an 
act of sneaking and sniffing. And his nose 
shall be put to the grindstone for it.” 

‘Tt was not your fault, Mr. Wegg, I must ad- 
mit,” said Venus, ‘‘that he got off with the 
Dutch bottle that night.” 

‘“©As you handsomely say again, partner! 
Na, it wasenot my fault. Dd have had that bot- 
tle out of him. Was it to be borne that he 


yo \ \ 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | 
should come, like a thief in the dark, digging ~ 


among stuff that was far more ours than his 
(seeing that we could deprive him of every grain 
of it, if he didn’t buy us at our own figure), and 
carrying off treasure from its bowels? No, it 
was not to be borne. And for that, too, his 
nose shalf be put to the grindstone.” 

‘How do you propose to do it, Mr. Wegg ?” 

‘““T'o put his nose to the grindstone? I pro- 
pose,” returned that estimable man, ‘‘to insult 
him openly. And, if looking into this eye of 
mine, he dares to offer a word in answer, to re- 
tort upon him before he can take his breath, 
‘Add another word to that, you dusty old dog, 
and you're a beggar.’”’ 

‘‘ Suppose he says nothing, Mr. Wegg?” 

‘‘Then,” replied Wegg, ‘‘we shall have come 
to an understanding with very little trouble, and 
Y'll break him and drive him, Mr. Venus. Tl 
put him in harness, and V’ll bear him up tight, 
and I’ll break him and drive him. ‘The harder 
the old Dust is driven, Sir, the higher.he’ll pay. 
And I mean to be paid high, Mr. Venus, I prom- 
ise you.” 

‘You speak quite revengefully, Mr. Wegg.” 

‘*Revengefully, Sir? Is it for him that I 
have declined and falled night after night? Is 
it for his pleasure that I’ve waited at home of an 
evening, like a set of skittles, to be set up and 
knocked over, set up and knocked over, by what- 
ever balls—or books—he chose to bring against 
me? Why, I’m a hundred times the man he is, 
Sir; five hundred times!” 

Perhaps it was with the malicious intent of 
urging him on to his worst that Mr. Venus look- 
ed as if he doubted that. 

‘What? Was it outside the house at present 
ockypied, to its disgrace, by that minion of for- 
tune and worm of the hour,” said Wegg, falling 
back upon his strongest terms of reprobation, 
and slapping the counter, ‘‘ that I, Silas Wegg, 
five hundred times the man he ever was, sat in 
all weathers, waiting for a errand or a customer ? 
Was it outside that very house as I first set eyes 
upon him, rolling in the lap of luxury, when I 
was a selling half-penny ballads there for a liv- 
ing? And am Fto grovel in the dust for hem to 
walk over? No!” ; 

There was a grin upon the ghastly counte- 
nance of the French gentleman under the influ- 
ence of the fire-light, as if he were computing 
how many thousand slanderers and traitors ar- 


ray themselves against the fortunate, on prem- — 
lises exactly answering to, those of Mr. Wegg. 
‘One might have fancied that the big-headed 
babies were toppling over with their hydroceph- 
alic attempts to reckon up the children of men — 
who transform their benefactors into their injur- 
‘ers by the same process. The yard or two of 
‘smile on the part of the alligator might have 


been invested with the meaning, ‘‘ All about this 
was quite familiar knowledge down in the depths 
of the slime, ages ago.” 

- “But,” said Wegg, possibly with some slight 
perception to the foregoing etfect, ‘‘ your speak- 
ing countenance remarks, Mr. Venus, that I’m 
duller and savager than usual. Perhaps I have 


allowed myself to brood too much. Begone, — 


dull Care! ’Tis gone, Sir. I’ve looked in 


upon you, and empire resumes her sway. For, _ 
as the song says—subject to your correction, — 


Sir— 


ee ee ee ee 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘When the heart of a man is depressed with cares, 
~ The mist is dispelled if Venus appears. | 

Like the notes of a fiddle, you sweetly, Sir, sweetly, 
Raises our spirits and charms our ears.’ 


Good-night,; Sir.” 

‘*T shall have a word or twox~to say to you, 
Mr. Wegg, before long,” remarked Venus, ‘‘re- 
specting my share in the project we’ve been 
speaking of.” 

“My time, Sir,” returned Wegg, ‘‘is yours. 
In the mean while let it be fully understood that 
I shall not neglect bringing the grindstone to 
bear, nor yet bringing Dusty Boffin’s nose to it. 
His nose once brought to it, shall be held to it 
by these hands, Mr. Venus, till the sparks flies 
out in showers.” 

With this agreeable promise Wegg stumped 
out, and shut the shop-door after him. ‘* Wait 
till I light a candle, Mr. Boffin,” said Venus, 
**and you'll come out more comfortable.” So, 
he lighting-a candle and holding it up at arm’s- 
length, Mr. Boffin disengaged himself from be- 
hind the alligator’s smile, with an expression of 
countenance so very downcast that it not only 
appeared as if the alligator had the whole of the 
joke to himself, but further as if it had been 
conceived and executed at Mr. Boffin’s expense. 

‘<'That’s a treacherous fellow,” said Mr. Bof- 
fin, dusting his arms and legs as he came forth, 
the alligator having been but musty company. 
‘‘'That’s a dreadful fellow.” 

‘*'The alligator, Sir?” said Venus. 

“*No, Venus, no. The Serpent.” 

** You'll have the goodness to notice, Mr. Bof- 
fin,” remarked Venus, ‘‘that I said nothing to 
him about my going out of the affair altogether, 
because I didn’t wish to take you any ways by 
surprise. But I can’t be too soon out of it for 
my satisfaction, Mr. Boffin, and I now put it to 
you when it will suit your views for me to re- 
Wre??-* 

‘«Thank’ee, Venus, thank’ee, Venus; but I 
don’t know what to say,” returned Mr. Boffin, 
‘*T don’t know what todo. He'll drop down on 
me anyway. He seems fully determined to drop 
down; don’t he?” 

Mr. Venus opined that such was clearly his 
intention. 

“You might be a sort of protection for me, 
if you remained in it,” said Mr. Boffin; ‘‘you 
might stand betwixt him and me, and take the 
edge off him. Don’t you feel as if you could 
make a show of remaining in it, Venus, till I 
had time to turn myself round ?” 

Venus naturally inquired how long Mr. Bof- 
fin thought it might take him to turn himself 
reund ? 

‘“‘T am sure I don’t know,” was the answer, 
given quite at a loss. ‘Every thing is so at 
_ Sixes and seyens. If I had never come into the 
property, I shouldn’t have minded. But being 
in it, it would be very trying to be turned out; 
now don’t you acknowledge that it would, Ve- 
nus ?” 

Mr. Venus preferred, he said, to leave Mr. 
Boffin to arrive at his own conclusions on that 
delicate question. 

“‘T am sure I don’t know what to do,” said 
Mr. Boffin. ‘‘If I ask advice of any one else, 
it’s only letting in another person to be bought 
out, and then I shall be ruined that way, and 
- might as well have given up the property and 


¢ 


a re 4! 


255 
gone slap to the work-house. If I was to take. 
advice of my. young-man, Rokesmith, I should 
have to buy Aim out, Sooner or later, of course, 
he’d drop down upon me, like Wegg. I was 
brought into the world to be dropped down upon, 
it appears to me.” — 

Mr. Venus listened to these lamentations in 
silence, while Mr. Boffin jogged to and fro, hold- 
ing his pockets as if he had a pain in them. © 

‘* After all, you haven’t said what you mean 
to do yourself, Venus. When you do go ont of 
it, how do you mean to go?” be 

Venus replied that as Wegg had found the 
document and handed it to him, it was his in- 
tention to hand it back to Wegg, with the dec- 
laration that he himself would have nothing to 
say to it, or do with it, and that Wegg must act 
as he chose, and take the consequences. 

‘¢And then he drops down with his whole 
weight upon me!” cried Mr. Boffin, ruefully. 
‘*Pd sooner be dropped upon by you than by 
him, or even by you jintly than by him alone.” 


Mr. Venus could only repeat that it was his” & 


fixed intention to betake himself to the paths of 
science, and to walk in the same all the days of 
his life; not dropping down upon his fellow- 
creatures until they were deceased, and then 
only to articulate them to the best of his humble 
ability. 

‘¢ How long could you be persuaded to keep 
up the appearance of remaining in it?” asked 
Mr. Boffin, retiring on his other idea. ‘‘ Could 
you be got to do so till the Mounds are gone?” 

No. That would protract the mental uneasi- 
ness of Mr. Venus too long, he said. 

‘*Not if I was tg show you reason now?” de. 
manded Mr. Boffin; ‘‘not if I was to show you 
good and sufficient reason ?” 

If by good and sufficient reason Mr. Boffin 
meant honest and unimpeachable reason, that 
might weigh with Mr. Venus against his person- 
al wishes and convenience. But he must add 
that he saw no opening to the possibility of such 
reason being shown him. 

‘*Come and see me, Venus,” said Mr. Boffin, 
‘Cat my house.” 

‘¢Ts the reason there, Sir?” asked Mr. Venus, 
with an incredulous smile and blink. 

‘Tt may be, or may not be,” said Mr. Boffin, 
“just as you view it. But in the mean time 
don’t go out of the matter. Look here. Do 
this. Give me your word that you won't take 
any steps with Wegg without my knowledge, just 
as I have given you my word that I won't with-. 
out yours.” 

“Done, Mr. Boffin!”” said Venus, after brief 
consideration. A 

‘‘Thank’ee, Venus, thank’ee, Venus! Done! 

‘When shall I come to see you, Mr. Bof- 
fin ?”’ ee 

‘When you like. The sooner the better. I 
must be going now. Good-night, Venus.” 

‘¢ Good-night, Sir.” 

“And good-night to the rest of the present 
company,” said Mr. Boftin, glancing round the 
shop. ‘They make a. queer show, Venus, and 
I should like to be better acquainted with them 
some day. Good-night, Venus, good-night ! 

44 ; enus. 1 
Thank’ee, Venus, thank’ee, V ie With that 
he jogged out into the street, and jogged upon 
his homeward way. é 

“Now I wonder,” he meditated as he went 


pitt) t= een 


256 


along, nursing his stick, ‘‘ whether it can be that 
Venus is setting himself to get the better of 
Wegg? Whether it can be that he means, when 
I have bought Wegg out, to have me all to him- 
self, and to pick me clean to the bones !? 

It was a cunning and suspicious idea, quite in 
the way of his school of Misers, and he looked 
very cunning and suspicious as he went jogging 
through the streets. More than once or twice, 
more than twice or thrice, say half a dozen times, 
he took his stick from the arm on which he nursed 
it, and hit a straight sharp rap at the air with 
its head. Possibly the wooden countenance of 
Mr. Silas Wegg was incorporeally before him at 
those moments, for he hit with intense satisfac- 
tion. 

He was within a few streets of his own house 
when a little private carriage, coming in the 
contrary direction, passed him, turned round, 
and passed him again. It was a little carriage 
of eccentric. movement, for again he heard it 
stop behind him and turn round, and again he 
saw it pass him. ‘Then it stopped, and then 
went on out of sight. But not far out of sight ; 
for when he came to the corner of his own street 
there it stood again. 

There was a lady’s face at the window as he 
came up with this carriage, and he was passing 
it when the lady.softly called to him by his 
name. 

‘(I beg your pardon, Ma’am?” said Mr. Bof- 
fin, coming to a stop. 

‘Tt is Mrs. Lammle,” said the lady. 

Mr. Boffin went up to the window, and hoped 
Mrs. Lammle was well. 

‘Not very well, dear Mr. Boffin; I have flut- 
tered myself by being—perhaps foolishly—un- 
easy and anxious. I have been waiting for you 
some time. Can I speak to you?” 

Mr. Boffin proposed that Mrs. Lammle should 
drive on to his house, a few hundred yards fur- 
ther. 

‘¢T would rather not, Mr. Boffin, unless you 
particularly wish it. I feel the difficulty and 
delicacy of the matter so much that I would 
rather avoid speaking to you at your own home. 
You must think this very strange ?” 

Mr. Boffin said no, but meant yes. 

‘“¢Tt is because I am so grateful for the good 
opinion of all my friends, and am so touched by 
it, that I can not bear to run the risk of forfeit- 
ing it in any case, even in the cause of duty. I 
have asked my husband (my dear Alfred, Mr. 
Boffin) whether it 7s the cause of duty, and he 
has most emphatically said Yes. I wish I had 
asked him sooner. It would have spared me 
much distress.”’ 

(‘Can this be more dropping down upon me!” 
thought Mr. Boffin, quite bewildered.) 

‘<It was Alfred who sent me to you, Mr, Bof- 
fin. Alfred said, ‘Don’t come back, Sophronia, 
until you have seen Mr. Boffin, and told him all. 
Whatever he may think of it, he ought certainly 
to know it.’ Would you mind coming into the 
carriage ?” 

Mr. Boffin answered, ‘‘ Not at all,” and took 
his seat at Mrs. Lammle’s side. 

‘¢ Drive slowly any where,” Mrs. Lammle call- 
ed to her coachman, ‘‘ and don’t let the carriage 
rattle.” 

“‘Tt must be more dropping down, I think,” 
said Mr. Boffin to himself. ‘‘ What next?”* 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


CHAPTER XV. 
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN AT HIS WORST. 


Tue breakfast-table at Mr. Boffin’s was usu- 
ally a very pleasant one, and was always pre- 
sided over by Bella. As though he began each 
new day in his healthy natural character, and 
some waking hours were necessary to his relapse 
into the corrupting influences of his wealth, the 
face and the demeanor of the Golden Dustman 
were generally unclouded at that meal. It would 
have been easy to believe then that there was no 
change in him. It was as the day went on that 
the clouds gathered, and the brightness of the 
morning became obscured. One might have said 
that the shadows of avarice and distrust length- 
ened as his own shadow lengthened, and that 
the night closed around him gradually. 

But one morning, long afterward to be re- 
membered, it was black midnight with the 
Golden Dustman when he first appeared. His 
altered character had never been so grossly 
marked.. His bearing toward his Secretary was 
so-eharged with insolent distrust and arrogance, 
that the latter rose and left the table before 
breakfast was half done. The look he directed 
at the Secretary’s retiring figure was so cunning- 
ly malignant, that Bella would have sat astound- 
ed and indignant, even though he had not gone 
the length of secretly threatening Rokesmith 
with his clenched fist as he closed the door, 
This unlucky morning, of all mornings in the 


‘year, was the morning next after Mr. Boffin’s 


interview with Mrs. Lammle in her little car- 
riage. “ 

Bella looked to Mrs. Boffin’s face for com- 
ment on, or explanation of, this stormy humor 
in her husband, but none was there. An anx- 
ious and a distressed observation of her own 
face was all she could read in it. When they 
were left alone together—which was not until 
noon, for Mr. Boffin sat long in his easy-chair, 
by turns jogging up and down the breakfast- 
room, clenching his fist and muttering—Bella, 
in consternation, asked her what had happened, 
what was wrong? ‘‘I am forbidden to speak to 
you about it, Bella dear; I mustn’t tell you,” 
was all the answer she could get. And still, 
whenever, in her wonder and dismay, she raised 
her eyes to Mrs. Bofflin’s face, she saw in it the 
same anxious and distressed observation of her 
own. 

Oppressed by her sense that trouble was im- 
pending, and lost in speculations why Mrs. 
Boffin should look at her as if she had any part 
in it, Bella found the day long and dreary. It 
was far on in the afternoon when, she being 


‘in her own room, a servant brought her a mes- 


sage from Mr. Boffin begging her to come to 
his. 3 

Mrs. Boffin was there, seated on a re and 
Mr. Boffin was jogging up and down.» On see- 
ing Bella he stopped, beckoned her to him, and 
drew her arm through his. 
my dear,” he said, gently; ‘‘I am not angry 
with you. Why you actually tremble! 
be alarmed, Bella, my dear. I'll see you righted.” 


*¢ See me fighted ?” thought Bella. Andthen 5 


repeated aloud in a tone of astonishment: ‘‘ See 

me righted, Sir?” » 
“Ay, ay!” said Mr. Boffin. 

ed. «Send Mr. Rokesmith here, you Sir.” 


4 


*¢ Don’t be alarmed, 


Don’t. 


«See you right 


wife, ‘you 


Bella would have been lost in perplexity if 
there had been pause enough; but the servant 
found Mr. Rokesmith near at hand, and he al- 
most immediately presented himself. 

‘*Shut the door, Sir!” said Mr. Boffin. “I 
have got something to say to yow which I fancy 
you'll not be pleased to hear.” - 

“J am sorry to reply, Mr. Boffin,” returned 
the Secretary, as, having closed the. door, he 
turned and faced him, ‘‘that I think that very 

likely.” 
~ “What do you mean?” blustered Mr. Boffin. 

*“‘T mean that it has become no novelty to me 
to hear from your lips what-I would rather not 


‘ hear.” 


‘‘Oh! Perhaps we shall change that,” said 
Mr. Boffin with a threatening roll of his head. 

‘‘T hope so,” returned the Secretary. He 
was quiet and respect* i; but stood, as Bella 
thought (and was giad to think), on his man- 
hood too.’ 

‘* Now, Sir,” said Mr. Boffin, “look at this 
young lady on my arm.” 

Bella involuntarily raising her eyes, when this 
sudden reference was made to herself, met those 


of Mr. Rokesmith. He was pale and seemed 


agitated. Then her eyes passed on to Mrs. 
Boffin’s, and she met the look again. In a flash 
it enlightened her, and she began to understand 
what she had done. 

*“*T say to you, Sir,” Mr. Boffin repeated, 
**Jook at this young lady on my arm.” 

**T do so,” returned the Secretary. 

As his glance rested again on Bella for a mo- 
ment, she thought there was reproach init. But 
it is possible that the reproach was within her- 
self. ‘ . 
‘¢ How dare you, Sir,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘tam- 
per, unknown to me, with this young lady ? How 
dare you come out of your station, and your place 
in my house, to pester this young lady with your 
impudent addresses?” | 
_ “TI must decline to answer questions,” said 
the Secretary, ‘‘that are so offensively asked.” 

‘**You decline to answer?” retorted Mr. Bof- 
fin. ‘You decline to answer, do you? Then 
Yl tell you what it is, Rokesmith; I'll answer 
for you. There are two sides to this matter, 
and I'll take ’em separately. ‘The first side is, 
sheer Insolence. That’s the first side.” 


The Secretary smiled with some bitterness, as | 


though he would have said, *‘ So I see and hear.” 

“Tt was sheer Insolerce-in you, I tell you,” 
said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘even to think of this young 
lady. This young lady was far above you. This 
young lady was no match for you. This young 


_ lady was Jying in wait (as she was qualified to 


do) for money, and you had no money.” 

Bella hung her head and seemed to shrink a 
little from Mr. Boffin’s protecting arm. 

‘What are you, I should like to know,” pur- 
sued Mr. Boffin, ‘that you were to have the 
audacity to follow up this young lady? This 
young lady was looking about the market for a 
good bid; she wasn’t in it to be snapped up by 
fellows that had no money to lay out; nothing 


_to buy with.” 


**Oh, Mr. Boffin! Mrs. Boffin, pray say some- 
thing for me!” murmured Bella, disengaging 
her arm, and covering her face with her hands. 

_**Old lady,” said Mr. Boffin, anticipating his 
hold your tongue. Bella, my dear, 


Rie ou 
4 OY ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


257 


don’t you let yourself be put out. Tl right 


you.” 
**But you don’t don’t ri 2 
you don't, you don’t right me!” ex. 


claimed Bella, with great emphasis. ‘ You 
wrong me, wrong me!’ 
‘Don’t you be put ont, my dear,” compla- 


cently retorted Mr. Boffin. “‘]’JI bring this 
young man to book. Now, you Rokesmith! 
You can’t decline to hear, you know, as well as 
to answer. You hear me tell you that the first 
side of your conduct was Insolence—Insolence 
and Presumption. Answer me one thing, if 
you can. Didn't this young lady tell you so 
herself?” 

“Did I, Mr. Rokesmith ?” asked Bella; with 
her face still covered. ‘‘Oh say, Mr. Roke- 
smith! Did 1?” 

‘*Don’t be distressed, Miss Wilfer; it matters 
very httle now.” 

“Ah! You can’t deny it, though!” said Mr. 
Boffin, with a knowing shake of his head. 

‘* But I have asked him to forgive me since,” 
cried Bella; ‘‘and I would ask him to forgive 
me now again, upon my knees, if it would spare 
him!” 

Here Mrs. Boffin broke ont a-crying. 

**Old lady,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘stop that noise! 
Tender-hearted in you, Miss Bella; but I mean 
to have it out right through with this young man, 
having got him into a corner. Now, you Roke- 
smith. I tell you that’s one side of your con- 
duct—Insolence and Presumption. Now I’m 
a-coming to the other, which is much worse, 
This was a speculation of yours.” 

‘*‘T indignantly deny it.” 

‘*Tt’s of no use your denving it; it doesn’t 
signify a bit whether you deny it or not; I’ve 
got a head upon my shoulders, and it ain’t a 
baby’s. What!” said Mr. Boffin, gathering him- 
self together in his‘most suspicious attitude, and 
wrinkling his face into a very map of curves and 
corners. ‘Don’t I know what grabs are made 
at aman with money? If I didn’t keep my eyes 
open and my pockets buttoned, shouldn’t I be 
brought to the work-house before I knew where 
JT was? Wasn’t the experience of Dancer, and 
Elwes, and Hopkins, and Blewbury Jones, and 
ever so many more of ’em, similar to mine? 
Didn’t every body want to make grabs at what 
they’d got, and bring ’em to poverty and ruin ? 
Weren't they forced to hide every thing belong- 
ing to ’em, for fear it should be snatched from 
‘em? Of course they was. I shall be told next 
that they didn’t know. human natur!” 

‘*They! Poor creatures,” murmured the Sec- 
retary. 

‘What do you say?” asked Mr. Boffin, snap- 
ping at him. ‘‘ However, you needn’t be at the 


| trouble of repeating it, for it ain’t worth hear- 


ing, and won’t go down with me. I’m a-going 
to unfold your plan: before this young lady; ’m 
a-going to show this young lady the second view 
of yon; and nothing you can ‘say will stave it - 
off. (Now, attend here, Bella, my dear.) Roke- 
smith, yon’re a needy chap. You're a chap 
that I pick up in the street. Are you, or ain’t 
rou?” % 

‘© Go on, Mr. Boffin; don’t appeal to me. 

‘‘Not appeal to you,” retorted Mr. Boffin, as 
if he hadn’t done so. ‘‘ No, I should hope not! 
Appealing to you would be rather a rum course, 
As I was saying, you’re a needy chap that I pick 


A 
Pst) 


258 


A oe : 
YY 
Wy 


Vy, 


Ti Mm 
Vile 


up in the street. You come and ask me in the 
street to take you for a Secretary, and I take 
you. Very good.” 

“* Very bad,” murmured the Secretary. 

‘‘ What do you say?” asked Mr. Boffin, snap- 
ping at him again. 

He returned no answer. Mr. Boffin, after 
eying him with a comical look of discomfited 
curiosity, was fain to begin afresh. 

‘This Rokesmith is.a needy young man that 
I take for my Secretary out of the open street. 
This Rokesmith gets acquainted with my affairs, 
and gets to know that I mean to settle a sum 
of money on this young lady. ‘Oho!’ says this 
Rokesmith ;” here Mr. Boffin clapped a finger 
against his nose, and tapped it several times 


with a sneaking air, as embodying Rokesmith 


\y 
A wo 
NS 


\i 


Ye Yi 


confidentially confabulating with his own nose; 
‘¢¢This will be a good haul; Ill go in for this!’ 
And so this Rokesmith, greedy and hungering, 
begins a-creeping on his hands and knees to- 
ward the money. Not so ba& a speculation 
either: for if this young lady had had less spir- 
it, or had had less sense, through being at all 
in the romantic line, by George he might have 
worked it out and made it pay! But fortunate- 
ly she was too many for him, and a pretty figure 
he cuts now he is exposed. 
said Mr. Boftin, addressing Rokesmith himself 


with ridiculous inconsistency. ‘Look athim!” — 
‘¢ Your unfortunate suspicions, Mr. Boffin—” 


began the Secretary. * 


‘* Precious unfortunate for you, I can tell you,” 


said Mr. Boffin. i 


There he stands!” 


—, 3 
ae ee ee 


gt 


‘——are not to be combated by any one, and 
dress myself to no such hopeless task. ° But 
I will say a word upon the truth.” 

“Yah! Much you care about the truth,” 
said Mr. Boffin, with a snap of his.fingers. 
Noddy! My dear: love!” expostulated his 
wife. . 

‘Old lady,” returned Mr. Boffin, ‘‘ you ‘keep 
still. I say to this Rokesmith here, much he 
cares about the truth. I tell him again, much 
he cares about the truth.” 

‘‘Qur connection being at an end, Mr. Bof- 


| “>in,” said the Secretary, ‘‘it can be of very little 


“moment to me what you say.” 


J 


Pence!’ 
ae 


“Oh! You are knowing enough,” retorted 
Mr. Boffin, with a sly look, ‘‘to. have found out 
that our connection’s at an end, eh? But you 
can’t get beforehand with me. Look at this in 
my hand. This is your pay, on your discharge. 
You can only follow suit. You can’t deprive 
me of the lead. Let’s have no pretending that 
you discharge yourself. I discharge you.” 

‘*So that I go,” remarked the Secretary, wav- 
ing the point aside with his hand, ‘‘it is all one 
to me.” " 

“Ts it?” said Mr. Boffin. ‘But it’s two to 
me, let me tell you. Allowing a fellow that’s 
found: out, to discharge himself, is one thing; 
discharging him for insolence and presumption, 
and likewise for designs upon his master’s mon- 
ey, is another. One and one’s two; not one. 
(Old lady, don’t you cut in. You keep still.)” 

‘* Have you said all you wish to say to me?” 
demanded the Secretary. * 

*¢T don’t know whether I have or not,” an- 
swered Mr. Boffin. ‘‘It depends.” ~ 

“« Perhaps you will consider whether there are 
any other strong expressions that you would like 
to bestow upon me?” 

‘‘1’ll consider that,” said. Mr. Boffin, obsti- 
nately, ‘‘at my convenience, and not at yours. 
You want the last word. It may not be suitable 
to let you have it.” 

“Noddy! My dear, dear Noddy! You sound 
so hard!” cried poor Mrs. Boffin, not to be quite 
repressed, ; 

“Old lady,” said her husband, but without 
harshness, ‘‘if you cut in when requested not, I’ll 
get a pillow and carry you out of the room upon 
it. What do vou want. to say, you Rokesmith?” 

“*To you, Mr. Boffin, nothing. But to Miss 


* Wilfer and to your good kind wife, a word.” 


~ © Out with it then,” replied Mr. Boffin, ‘‘and 
cut it short, for we’ve had enough of you.” 

“IT have borne,” said the Secretary, in a low 
yoice, ‘* with my false position here, that I might 
not be separated from Miss Wilfer. To be near 
her has been a recompense to me from day to 
day, even for the undeserved treatment I have 
had here, and for the degraded aspect in which 
she has often seen me. 


the best of my belief, with a spoken syllable or a 
look. But I have never changed in my devo- 
tion to her, except—if she will forgive my say- 
ing so—that it is deeper than it was, and better 
founded.” | 

*¢ Now, mark this chap’s saying Miss Wilfer, 
when he means £ s. d./” cried Mr. Boffin, with 
a cunning wink. ‘‘ Now, mark this chap’s mak- 
ing Miss Wilfer stand for Pounds, Shillings, and 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


: ; : | 
Since Miss Wilfer re- 
jected me I have never again urged my suit, to 


259 


“My feeling for Miss Wilfer,” pursued the 
Secretary, without deigning to notice him, “is 
not one to be ashamed of. I avow it, I love 
her. Let me go where I may when I presently 
leave this house, I shall go into a blank life, 
leaving her,” ei 

‘* Leaving £ s. d. behind me,” said Mr. Boffin 
by way of commentary, with another wink. »~ 

‘*That I am incapable,” the Secretary went ~ 
on, still without heeding him, “of a mercenary 
project, or a mercenary thought in connection 
with Miss Wilfer, is nothing meritorious in me,’ 
because any prize that I could put before my 
fancy would sink into insignificance beside her. 


3 ¢ 


If the greatest wealth or the highest rank were 


hers, it would only be important in my sight as 
removing her still farther from me, and making 
me more hopeless, if that could be. Say,” re- 
marked the Secretary, looking full at his late 
master, ‘‘say that with a word she could strip 
Mr. Boffin of his fortune and take possession of 


it, she would be of no greater worth in my eyes 


than she is.” 

“What do you think by this time, old lady,” 
asked Mr. Boftin, turning to his wife in a ban- 
tering tone, ‘‘about this Rokesmith here, and 
his caring for the truth? You needn’t say what 
you think, my dear, because I don’t want you 
to cut in, but you can think it all the same. 
As to taking possession of my property, I war- 
rant you he wouldn’t do that himself if he 
could.” 

‘‘No,” returned the Secretary, with another 
full look. 

‘¢ Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Boffin. ‘ There’s 
nothing like a good ’un while you are about it.” 

‘¢T have been for a moment,” said the Secre- 
tary, turning from him and falling into his for- 
mer manner, ‘‘ diverted from the little I have 
to say: My interest in Miss Wilfer began when 
I first saw her; even began when I had only 
heard of her. It was, in fact, the cause of my 
throwing myself in Mr. Boffin’s way, and enter- 
ing his service. Miss Wilfer has never known 
this until now. I mention it now, only as a cor- 
roboration (though I hope it may be needless) 
of my being free from the sordid design attrib- 
uted to me.” . 

‘‘ Now, this is a very artful dog,” said Mr. 
Boffin, with a deep look. ‘*This is a longer- 
headed schemer than I thought him. See how 
patiently and methodically he goes to work. He 
gets to know about me and my property, and 
about this young lady, and her share in poor 
young John’s story, and he puts this and that 
together, and he says to himself, ‘11 get in with 
Boffin, and I’ll get in with this young lady, and 
V'll work ’em both at the same time, and I'll 
bring my pigs. to market somewhere.’ I hear 
him say it, bless you! Why, I look at him now, 
and I see him say it!” ‘ 

Mr. Boffin pointed at the culprit, as it were mm 
the act, and hugged himself in his great pene- 
tration. 

‘‘But luckily he hadn’t to deal with the peo- 
ple he supposed, Bella my dear !’’ said Mr. Bof- 
fin. ‘*No! Luckily he had to deal with you, 
and with me, and with Daniel and Miss Dancer, 
and with Elwes, and with Vulture Hopkins, and 
with Blewbury Jones and all the rest of us, one 
down t’other come on. And he’s beat, that’s 
what he is; regularly beat. He thought to 


260 
squeeze money ont of us, and he has done for 
himself instead, Bella my dear !” 

Bella my dear made no response, gave no sign 
of acquiescence. When she had first covered her 
face she had sunk upon a chair with her hands 

resting on the back of it, and had never moved 
since. There was a short silence at this point, 
and Mrs. Boffin softly rose as if to go to her. 
But Mr. Boffin stopped her with a gesture, and 
she obediently sat down again and staid where 
she was. 

‘¢There’s your pay, Mister Rokesmith,” said 
the Golden Dustman, jerking the folded scrap 
of paper he had in his hand toward his late 
Secretary. ‘‘I dare say you can stoop to pick 
it up, after what you have stooped to here.” 

‘‘T have stooped to nothing but this,” Roke- 
smith answered, as he took it from the ground ; 
‘‘and this is mine, for I have earned it by the 
hardest of hard labor.” 

‘‘ You're a pretty quick packer, I hope,” sa#d | 
- Mr. Boffin; ‘‘ becausé the sooner you are gone, 
bag and baggage, the better for all parties.” 

‘You need have no fear of my lingering.” 

‘“There’s just one thing though,” said Mr. 
‘Boffin, ‘‘ that I should like to ask you before we 
come to a good riddance, if it was only to show 
this young lady how conceited you schemers are, 
in thinking that nobody finds out how you con- 
tradict yourselves.” 

“* Ask me any thing you wish to ask,” re- 
turned Rokesmith, ‘‘ but use the expedition that 
you recommend.” 

* You pretend to have a mighty admiration 
for this young lady?” said Mr. Boffin, laying 
his hand protectingly on Bella’s head without 
looking down at her. 

“*T do not pretend.” 

“Oh! Well. You have a mighty admiration 
for this young lady—since you are so particu- 
lar?” 

ese 

“‘How do you reconcile that with this young 
lady’s being a weak-spirited, improvident idiot, 
not knowing what was due to herself, flinging 
up her money to the church weather-cocks, and 
racing off at. a splitting pace for the work- 
house ?” 

“*T don’t understand you.” 

‘Don’t you? Or won't you? What else 
could you have made this young lady out to be, 
if she had listened to such addresses as yours ?” 

‘¢What else, if I had been so happy as to win 
her affections and possess her heart ?” 

‘Win her affections,” retorted Mr. Boffin, 
with ineffable contempt, ‘‘ and possess her heart! 
Mew says the cat, Quack-quack says the duck, 
Bow-wow-wow says the dog! Win her affec- 
tions and possess her heart! Mew, Quack- 
quack, Bow-wow !” 

Jolin Rokesmith stared at him in his outburst, 
as if with some faint idea that he had gone mad. 

‘‘What is due to this young lady,” said Mr. 
Boffin, ‘Sis Money, and this young lady right 
well knows it.”’ 

‘¢You slander the young lady.” » 

‘¢ You slander the young lady; you with your 
affections and hearts and trumpery,” returned 
Mr. Boffin. ‘‘It’s of a piece with the rest of 
your behavior. I heard of these doings of vours 
only last night, or you should have heard of ’em 
from me sooner, take your oath of it. I heard 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — Ne er 


‘break if this goes on! 


“money. 
‘me speak to good little Pa, and lay my head 
-upon his shoulder, and tell him all my gricfs. 


of ’em from a lady with as good a head-piece as 
the best, and she knows this young lady, and I 
know this young lady, and we all three know 
that it’s Money she makes a stand for—money, 
money, money—and that you and your affec- 
tions and hearts are a Lie, Sir!” 

‘¢Mrs. Boftin,” said Rokesmith, quietly tnrn- 
ing to her, ‘‘for your delicate and unvarying 
kindness I thank you with the warmest grati- 
tude. Good-by! Miss Wilfer, good-by !” 

‘¢ And now, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin, laying 
his hand ‘on Bella’s head again, ‘you may be- 
gin to make yourself quite comfortable, and { 
hope you feel that you’ve been righted.” 

But Bella was so far from appearing to feel 
it that she shrank from his hand and from the 
chair, and, starting up in an incoherent passion 
of tears, and stretching out her arms, cried, ‘‘O 
Mr. Rokesmith, before you go, if you could but 
‘make me poor again! O! make me poor again, 
‘Somebody, I beg and pray, or my heart will 
Pa, dear, make me poor 
again and take me home! I was bad enough 
there, but I have been so much worse here. 
Don’t give me money, Mr. Boffin, I won’t have 
Keep it away from me, and only let 


Nobody else can understand me, nobody else 
can comfort me, nobody else knows how un- 
worthy I am, and yet can love me like a little 
child. I am better with Pa than any one— 
more innocent, more sorry, more glad!” So, 
crying out in a wildeway that she could not bear 
this, Bella drooped her head on Mrs. Boffin’s 
ready breast. 

John Rokesmith from his place in the room, 
and Mr. Boffin from his, looked on at her in 
silence until she was silent herself. ‘Then Mr. 
Boffin observed, in a soothing and comfortable 
tone, ‘‘ There, my dear, there; you are righted 
now, and it’s all right. I don’t wonder, Vin 
sure, at vour being a little flurried by haying a 
scene with this fellow, but it’s all over, my deer, 
and you're righted, and it’s—and it’s a//xizht!” 
Which Mr. Boffin repeated with a highly satis- 
fied air of completeness and finality. 

‘‘T hate you!” cried Bella, turning suddenly 
upon him, with a stamp of her little feot—‘‘at 
least, I can’t hate vou, but I don’t like you!” 

‘“Hun-ro!” exclaimed Mr. Boffin, in an 
amazed under-tone. 

“You're a scolding, unjust, abusive, aggra- 
vating, bad old creature!’ cried Bella. 
angry with my ungrateful self for calling you 
names; but you are, you are; you know you 
are !” 

Mr.. Boffin stared here, and stared there, as 
misdoubting that he must be in some sort of 
fit. 

‘‘T have heard: you with shame,” said Bella. 
‘¢With shame for myself, and with shame for 
you. You ought to be above the base tale-bear- 
ing of a time-serving woman; but you are above 
nothing now.” 


Mr. Boffin, seeming to become convineed that, 


this was a fit, rolled his eyes and loosened hae 
neckcloth. 


“When I eame here T respected you and hha 
ored you, and I soon loved you,” cried Bella, 


‘“And now I can’t bear the sight of you. At 


least, I don’t know that I ought to go so far as.’ | 


“Jam? 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


that—only you’re a—you’re a Monster!” Hav- 
ing shot this bolt out with a great expenditure 
of force, Bella hysterically laughed and cried to- 
gether. 

**'The best wish I can wish you is;’’ said Bella, 
returning to the charge, “‘that you had not one 
single‘farthing in the world. If any true friend 
and well-wisher could make you a bankrupt you 
would be a Duck; but as a man of property you 
are a Demon!” 

After dispatching this second bolt with a still 
greater expenditure of force, Bella laughed and 
cried still more. 

‘“‘Mr. Rokesmith, pray stay one moment. 
Pray hear one word from me before you go! I 
am deeply sorry for the reproaches you have 
borne on my account. Out of the depths of my 
heart I earnestly and truly beg your pardon.” 

As she stepped toward him, he met her. As 
she gave him her hand, he put it to his lips, and 
said, ‘‘God bless you!” No laughing was 
mixed with Bella’s crying then; her tears were 
pure and fervent. 

**There is not an ungenerous word that I 
have heard addressed to you—heard with scorn 

and indignation, Mr. Rokesmith —but it has 
wounded me far more than you, for I have de- 
served it, and you never have. Mr. Rokesmith, 
it is to me you owe this perverted account of 
what passed between us that night. I parted 
with the secret, even while I was angry with 
myself for doing so. It -was very bad in me, but 
indeed it was not wicked. 


of conceit and folly—one of my many such mo- | 


ments—one of my many such hours— years. 
As I am punished for it severely, try to forgive 
it 7 i, 

**T do with all my soul.” 

“Thank you. O thank you! Don’t part 
from me till I have said one other word, to do 
you justice. The only fault you can be truly 
charged with, in having spoken to me as you did 
that night—with how much delicacy and how 
much forbearance no one but I can know or be 
grateful to you for—is, that you laid yourself 
open to be slighted by a worldly shallow girl 
whose head was turned, and who was quite una- 
ble to rise to the worth of what you offered her. 
Mr. Rokesmith, that girl has often seen herself 
in a pitiful and poor light since, but never in so 
pitiful and poor a light as now, when the mean 

~tone in which she answered you—sordid and 
vain girl that she was—has been echoed in her 
ears by Mr. Boffin.” 

He kissed her hand again. 

“* Mr. Boffin’s speeches were detestable to me, 
shocking to me,” said Bella, startling that gen- 
tleman with another stamp of her little foot. 
** It is quite true that there was a time, and very 

_ lately, when I deserved to be so ‘righted,’ Mr. 
Rokesmith ; but I hope that I shall never de- 
serve it again !” 

He once more put her hand to his lips, and 
then relinquished it, and left the room. Bella 
was hurrying back to the chair in which she had 
hidden her face so long, when, catching sight 
of Mrs. Boffin by the way, she stopped at her. 
‘“‘He is gone,” sobbed Bella indignantly, de- 
spairingly, in fifty ways at once, with her arms 
round Mrs. Boffin’s neck. ‘He has been most 
‘shaméfully abused, and most unjustly and most 


7 


I did it in a moment! 


261 


All this time Mr. Boffin had been rolling his 
eyes over his loosened neckerchief, as if his fit 
were still upon him. Appearing now to think 
that he was coming to, he stared straight before 
him for a while, tied his neckerchief again, took 
several long inspirations, swallowed several times, 
and ultimately exclaimed’ with a deep sigh, as 


if he felt himself on the whole better: ‘Well ‘aay 


No word, good or bad, did Mrs. Boffin Say $ 
but she tenderly took care of Bella, and glanced 
at her husband as if for orders. Mr. Boffin, 
without imparting any, took his seat on a chair 
over against them, and there sat leaning for- 
ward, with a fixed countenance, his legs apart, 
a hand on each knee, and his elbows squared, 
until Bella should dry her eyes and raise her 
head, which in the fullness of time she did. 

‘“‘I must go home,” said Bella, rising hur- 
riedly. ‘*I am very grateful to you for all you 
have done for me, but I can’t stay here.” 

* **My darling girl!” remonstrated Mrs. Boffin. 

‘“‘No, I can’t stay here,” said Bella; ‘I can’t 
indeed. Ugh! you vicious old thing!” (This 
to Mr. Boffin.) 

‘* Don’t be rash, my love,” urged Mrs. Boffin. 
‘<'Think well of what you do.” ane 

**Yes, you had better think well,” said Mr. 
Boffin. 

‘*J shall never more think well of you,” cried 
Bella, cutting him short, with intent defiance in 
her expressive little eyebrows, and championship 
of the late Secretary in every dimple. ‘‘No! 
never again! Your money has changed you 
tomarble. Youareahard-hearted Miser. You 


are worse than Dancer, worse than Hopkins, 
worse than Blackberry Jones, worse than any 
of the wretches. And more!” proceeded Bella, 
‘breaking into tears again, ‘‘you were wholly 
‘undeserving of the Gentleman you have lost.’? 

‘‘ Why, you don’t mean to say, Miss Bella,” 
the Golden Dustman slowly remonstrated, ‘‘ that 
you set up Rokesmith against me?” 

“‘T do!” said Bella. ‘‘ He is worth a Million 
of you.” 

Very pretty she looked, though very angry, 
as she made. herself as tall as she possibly could 
(which was not extremely tall), and utterly re- 
nounced her patron with a lofty toss of her rich 
brown head. 4 
. ‘J would rather he thought well of me,” said 
Bella, ‘‘though he swept the street for bread, 


hthan that you did, though you splashed the mud 
‘upon him from the wheels of a chariot of pure 


izgold. ‘There !” 

‘¢ Well I’m sure!” cried Mr. Boffin, staring. 

‘¢And for a long time past, when you have 
thought you set yourself above him, I have only 
seen you under his feet,” said Bella—‘‘ There! 
And throughout I saw in him the master, and I 
saw in you the man—There! And when you 
used him shamefully, I took his part and loved 
him—There! I boast of it !” 


After which strong avowal Bella underwent. 


reaction, and cried to any extent, with her face 
on the back of her chair. 

‘¢ Now, look here,” said Mr. Boffin, as soon 
as he could find an opening for breaking the 
silence and striking in. ‘‘ Give me your atten- 
tion, Bella. I am not angry. 

“‘T an!” said Bella. i 

‘“‘T say,” resumed the Golden Dustman, “T 


_ basely driven away, and I am the cause of it!” ; am not angry, and I mean kindly to you, and I 


Se De ‘ : " Rite fy 
bee ay 7" “i ote. + a 


e 


i 


262 


want to overlook this. So you'll stay where you 
are, and we'll agree to say no more about it.” 

‘No, I can’t stay here,” cried Bella, rising | 
hurriedly again; ‘‘ I can’t think of staying here. 
I must go home for good.” 

‘Now, don’t be silly,” Mr. Boffin reasoned. 
<¢Don’t do what you can’t undo; don’t do what 
you’re sure to be sorry for.” 

‘‘T shall never be sorry for it,” said Bella; 
¢¢and I should always be sorry, and should every 
minute of my life despise myself, if I remained 
here after what has happened.” 

‘At least, Bella,’ argued Mr. Boffin, “let 
there be no mistake about it. Look before you 
leap, you know. Stay where you are, and all’s 
well, and all’s as it was to be. Go away, and | 
you can never come back.” 

‘‘T know that I can never come back, and 
that’s what I mean,” said Bella. 

‘‘You mustn’t expect,” Mr. Boffin pursued, 
‘¢that I’m a-going to settle money on you, if 
you leave us like this, because I am not. No, 
Bella! Be careful! Not one brass farthing.” 

“Expect!” said Bella, haughtily. ‘‘Do you 


t 
: 


‘think that any power on earth could make me 


take it, if you did, Sir?” 

But there was Mrs. Boffin to part from, and, 
in the full flush of her dignity, the impressible 
little soul collapsed again. Down upon her 
knees before that good woman, she rocked her- 
self upon her breast, and cried, and sobbed, and 
folded her in her arms with all her might. 

‘‘You're a dear, a dear, the best of dears!” 
cried Bella. ‘‘ You’re the best of human creat- 
ures. I can never be thankful enough to you, 
and can never forget you. If I should live to 
be blind and deaf, I know I shall see and hear 
you, in my fancy, to the last of my dim old 
days !” 

Mrs. Boffin wept most heartily, and embraced 
her with all forfdness; but said not one single 
word except that she was her dear girl. She 
said that often enough, to be sure, for she said 
it over and over again; but not one word else. 

Bella broke from her at length, and was going 
weeping out of the room, when, in her own little 
queer affectionate way, she half relented toward 
Mr. Boffin. 

‘‘Tam very glad,”’ sobbed Bella, ‘‘ that Tcalled 
you names, Sir, because you richly deserved it. 
But [ am very sorry that I called you names, 
because you used to be so different. Say good- 
by!” 

" “ Good-by,” said Mr, Boffin, shortly. 

‘Tf I knew which of your hands was the least 
spoiled, I would ask you to let me touch it,” said 
Bella, ‘‘ for the last time. . But not because I re- 
pent of what I have said to you. For I don’t. 
It’s true!” 

‘Try the left hand,” said Mr. Boffin, holding 
it out in a stolid manner; it’s the least used.” 

‘You have been wonderfully good and kind-to 
me,” said Bella, ‘‘and I kiss it for that. You 
have been as bad as bad could be to Mr. Roke- 
smith, and I throw it away for that. Thank 

rou for myself, and good-by !” 
you yself, good-by ! 

‘* Good-by,” said Mr. Boffin as before. 

Bella caught him round the neck and kissed 
him, and ran out forever. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. mr ket 


She ran up stairs, and sat down on the floor 
in her own room, and cried abundantly. 


But 
the day was declining, and she had no time to | 


lose. She opened all the places where she kept 
her dresses; selected only those she had brought 
with her, leaving all the rest; and made a great 


misshapen bundle of them, to be sent for after- 
ward, 


.“*I won’t take one of the others,” said Bella, 


tying the knots of the bundle very tight, in the se- 


verity of her resolution. ‘‘ I'll leave all the pres- 
ents behind, and begin again entirely on my own 
account.” That the resolution might be thor- 
oughly carried into practice, she even changed 
the dress she wore for that in which she had 
come to the grand mansion. Even the bonnet 
she put on was the bonnet that had mounted into 
the Boffin chariot .at Holloway. 

‘Now I am complete,” said Bella. ‘‘Its a 
little trying, but I have steeped my eyes im cold 
water, and I won’t cry any more. You have 
been apleasant room to me, dearroom. Adieu! 


‘We shall never see each other again.” 


With a parting kiss of her fingers to it she 
softly closed the door, and went with a light foot 
down the great staircase, pausing and listening 
as she went, that she might meet none of the 
household. No one chanced to be about, and 
she got down to the hall in quiet. The door of 
the late Secretary’s.room stood open. She peeped 
in as she passed, and divined from the emptiness 
of his table, and the general appearance of things, 
that he was already gone. Softly opening the 
great hall door, and softly closing it upon her- 
self, she turned and kissed it on the outside—in- 
sensible old combination of wood and iron that 


it was !—before she ran away from the house at — 


a swift pace. . 
‘That was well done!” panted Bella, slack- 
ening in the next street, and subsiding into a 
walk. ‘If I had left myself any breath to ery 
with, I should have cried again. Now poor 


dear darling little Pa, you are going to see your — 


lovely woman unexpectedly.” 


——-. &—- 


CHAPTER XVI. “a 


THE FEAST OF THE THREE HOBGOBLINS. 


Tue City looked unpromising enough as Bella 
made her way along its gritty streets. Most of 
its money-mills were slackenin« sail, or had left 
off grinding for the day. The master-millers 
had already departed, and the journeymen were 
departing. There was a jaded aspect on the 
business lanes and courts, and the very pave- 
ments had a weary appearance, confused by the 
tread of a million of feet. 
of night to temper down the day’s distraction of 
so feverish a place. 
newly-stopped whirling and grinding on the part 
of the money-mills seemed to linger in the air, 
and the quiet was more like the prostration of a 
spent giant than the repose of one who.was re- 
newing his strength. , 

If Bella thought, as she glanced at the mighty 
Bank, how agreeable it would be to have an 
hour’s gardening there, with a bright copper 


shovel, among the money, still she was not inan — 


avaricious vein. “Much improved in that respeet, 


and with certain half-formed images which had — 
little gold in their composition, dancing before 
her bright eyes, she arrived in the drug-flavored — 
region of Mincing Lane, with the sensation of 


¢ 


There must be hours ~ 


As yet the worry of the — 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘having just orened a drawer in a chemist’s 
shop. 

The counting-house of Chicksey, Vencering, 
and Stobbles was pointed out by an elderly fe- 
male accustomed to the care of offices, who 
dropped upon Bella out of a public house, wip- 
ing her mouth, and accounting for its humidity 
on natural principles well known to the physical 
sciences, by explaining that she had looked in at 
the door to see what o’clock it was. The count- 
ing-house was a wall-eyed ground-floor by a dark 
gateway, and Bella was considering, as she ap- 
proached it, could there be any precedent in the 
City for her going in and asking for R. Wilfer, 
when whom should she see, sitting at one of the 
windows with the plate-glass sash raised, but R. 
Wilfer himself, preparing to take a slight re- 
fection ! 

On approaching nearer, Bella discerned that 
the refection had the appearance of a small cot- 
tage-loaf and a pennyworth of milk. Simul- 
taneously with this discovery on her part, her 
father discovered her, and invoked the echoes of 
Mincing Lane to exclaim ‘‘ My gracious me)” 

He then came cherubically flying out without 
a hat, and embraced her, and handed her in. 
‘For it’s after hours and I am all alone, my 
dear,” he explained, ‘‘and am having—as I 
sometimes do when they are all gone—a quiet 
tea.” 

Lookin# round the office, as if her father were 
_a@ captive and this his cell, Bella hugged him 
and choked him to her heart’s content. 

**T never was so surprised, my dear!” said her 
father. ‘‘I couldn’t believe my eyes. Upon 
my life, I thought they had taken to_lying! 
The idea of your coming down the Lane your- 
self! Why didn’t you send the footman down 
the Lane, my dear?” 

**T have brought no footman with me, Pa.” 

“*Oh indeed! But you have brought the ele- 
gant turn-out, my love ?” 

SN6Pa,” 

‘*You never can have walked, my dear?” 

*¢ Yes, I have, Pa.” 

He looked so very much astonished that Bella 
could not make up her mind to break it to him 
just yet. 

“The consequence is, Pa, that your lovely 
woman feels a little faint, and would very much 
like to share your tea.” 

| The cottage-loaf and the pennyworth.of milk 

had been set forth on a sheet of paper on the 
window-seat. The cherubic pocket-knife, with 
the first bit of the loaf still on its point, lay be- 
‘side them where it had been hastily thrown 
down. Bella took the bit off, and put it in her 
mouth. ‘*My dear child,” said her father, 
**the idea of your partaking of such lowly fare! 
But at least you must have your own loaf and 
your own penn’orth. One moment, my dear. 
The Dairy is just over the way and round the 
corner.” 

Regardless of Bella’s dissuasions he ran out, 
and quickly returned with the new supply. 
**My dear child,” he said, as he spread it on 
another piece of paper before her, ‘‘the idea of 
a splendid—!” and then looked at her figure, 
and stopped short. 

‘* What’s the matter, Pa?’ 

“*__of a splendid female,” he resumed more 
slowly, ‘‘ putting up with such accommodation 


263 


as the present !—Is that a new dress you have 
on, my dear?” 

‘*No, Pa, an old one. 
it?” | 
‘‘Why, I thought I remembered it, my dear!” 

‘You should, for you bought it, Pa.” 

**Yes, I thought I bought it, my dear!” said 
the cherub, giving himself a little shake, as if to 
rouse his faculties. 

‘* And have you grown so fickle that you don’t 
like your own taste, Pa dear ?” 

‘* Well, my love,” he returned, swallowing a 
bit of the cottage-loaf with considerable effort, 
for it seemed to stick by the way: ‘*I should 
have thought it was hardly sufficiently splendid 
for existing circumstances.” 

*‘And so, Pa,” said Bella, moving coaxingly 
to his side instead of remaining opposite, ‘‘ you 
sometimes have a quiet tea here all alone? I 
am not in the tea’s way, if I draw my arm over 
your shoulder like this, Pa?” 

‘*Yes, my dear, and no, my dear. Yes tothe 
first question, and Certainly Not to the second. 
Respecting the quiet tea, my dear, why you see 
the occupations of the day are sometimes a little 
wearing; and if there’s nothing interposed be- 
tween the day and your mother, why she is 
sometimes a little wearing, too.” 

““T know, Pa.” . 

‘‘Yes, my dear. So sometimes I put a quiet 
tea at the window here, with a little quiet con- 
templation of the Lane (which comes soothing), 
between the day, and domestic—” 

‘« Bliss,” suggested Bella, sorrowfully. 

‘¢ And domestic Bliss,” said her father, quite 
contented to accept the phrase. 

Bella kissed him. ‘‘ And it is in this dark 
dingy place of captivity, poor dear, that you pass 
all the hours of your life when you are not at 
home ?” 

‘¢Not at home, or not on the road there, or 
on the road here, my love. Yes. You see that 
little desk in the corner ?” 

‘¢In the dark corner, furthest both from the 
light and from the fire-place? The shabbiest 
desk of all the desks ?” 

‘¢Now, does it really strike you in that point 
of view, my dear?” said her father, surveying it 
artistically with his head on one side: ‘‘ that’s 
mine. ‘That’s called Rumty’s Perch.” 

‘¢ Whose Perch?” asked Bella with great in- 
dignation. 

“*Rumty’s. You see, being rather high and 
up two steps they call it a Perch. And they 
call me Rumty.” eee 

‘‘ How dare they!” exclaimed Bella. 

‘‘ They’re playful, Bella my dear ; they’re play- 
ful. They’re more or less younger than I am, 
and they’re playful. What does it matter? It 
might be Surly, or Sulky, or fifty disagreeable 
things that I really shouldn’t like to be con- 
sidered. But Rumty! Lor, why not Rumty ?” 

To inflict a heavy disappointment on this sweet 
nature, which had been, through all her caprices, 
the object of her recognition, love, and admira- 
tion from infancy, Bella felt to be the hardest 
task of her hard day. ‘‘I should have done 
better,” she thought, ‘‘to tell him at first; I 
should have done better to tell him just now, 
when he had some slight misgiving; he is quite 
happy again, and I shall make him wretched. 

He was falling back on his loaf and milk, 


Don’t you remember 


: © 
264 

bl 

with the pleasantest composure, and Bella steal- 
ing her arm a little closer about him, and at the 
same time sticking up his hair with an irresisti- 
ble propensity to play with him founded on the 
habit of her whole life, had prepared herself. to 
say: ‘‘Pa dear, don’t be cast down, but I must 
tell you something disagreeable !” when he inter- 
rupted her in an unlooked-for manner. 

‘My gracious me!” he exclaimed, invoking 
the Mincing Lane echoes as before. ‘‘ This is 
very extraordinary !” 

‘What is, Pa?” 

‘¢ Why here’s Mr. Rokesmith now!” 

‘‘No, no, Pa, no,” cried Bella, greatly flur- 
ried. ‘Surely not.’ 

‘‘Yes there is! Look here 

Sooth to say, Mr. Rokesmith not only passed 
the window, but came into the counting-house. 
And not only came into the counting-house, 
‘but, finding himself alone there with Bella and 
her father, rushed at Bella and caught her in 
‘ his arms, with the rapturous words ‘‘ My dear, 
dear girl; my gallant, generous, disinterested, 
courageous, noble girl!’ And not only that 
even (which one might have thought astonish- 
ment enough for one dose), but Bella, after 
hanging her head for a moment, lifted it up and 
laid it on his breast, as if that were her head’s 
chosen and lasting resting-place ! 

‘¢T knew you would come to him, and I fol- 
lowed you,” said Rokesmith. ‘‘My love, my 
life! You aRE mine?” . 

To which Bella responded, ‘* Yes, I Am yours 
if you think me worth taking!” And after that, 
seemed to shrink to next to nothing in the clasp 


9 


of his arms, partly because it was such a strong | 


one on his part, and partly because there was 
such a yielding to it on hers. 

The cherub, whose hair would have done for 
itself, under the influence of this amazing spec- 
tacle, what Bella had just now done for it, stag- 


gered back into the window-seat from which he | 
_not approve? Am I leading up to it right?” 


had risen, and surveyed the pair with his eyes 
dilated to their utmost. 

‘¢But we must think of dear Pa,” said Bella; 
‘*T haven’t told dear Pa; let us speak to Pa.” 
Upon which they turned to do so. 

‘¢T wish first, my dear,” remarked the cherub 
faintly, ‘‘that you’d have the kindness to sprin- 
» kle me with a little milk, for I feel as if I was— 
Going.”. 

In fact, the good little fellow had become 
alarmingly limp, and his senses seemed to be 
rapidly escaping, from the knees upward. Bella 
sprinkled him with kisses instead of milk, but 
gave him a little of that article to drink; and 
he gradually revived under her caressing care. 

‘¢We'll break it to you gently, dearest Pa,” 
said Bella. 

‘My dear,” returned the cherub, looking at 
them both, ‘‘you broke so much in the -first— 
Gush, if I may so express myself—that I think 
I am equal to a good large breakage now.” 

‘“Mr. Wilfer,” said John Rokesmith, excited- 
ly and joyfully, ‘‘ Bella takes me, though I have 
no fortune, even no present occupation; nothing 
but what I can get in the life before us. Bella 
takes me!” 

. **Yes, I should rather have inferred, my dear 
Sir,” returned the cherub feebly, ‘‘that Bella 
took you, from what I have within these few 
minutes remarked.” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


patience with his hand, ‘‘a certain mercenary 


‘¢You don’t know, Pa,” said Bella, ‘‘ how iil 
I have used him!’ lie 

“You don’t know, Sir,” said Rokesmith, 
what a heart she has!” 

‘You don’t know, Pa,” said Bella, ‘‘ what a 
shocking creature I was growing, when he saved” 
me from myself!” 

‘‘You don’t. know, Sir,” said Rokesmith, 
‘‘what a sacrifice she has made for me!” 

‘‘My dear Bella,” replied the cherub, still 
pathetically scared, ‘‘and my dear John Roke- 
smith, if you will allow me so to call you—” 

‘“‘Yes do, Pa; do!” urged Bella. ‘‘JZ allow 
you, and my will is his law. Isn’t it—dear John 


Rokesmith ?”’ 


There was an engaging shyness in Bella, 
coupled with an engaging tenderness of love and 
confidence and pride, in thus first calling him 
by name, which made it quite excusable in John 
Rokesmith to do what he did. What he did 
was, once more to give her the appearance of 
vanishing as aforesaid. 

‘‘T think, my dears,” observed the cherub, 
‘“that if you could make it convenient to sit one 
on one side of me, and the other on the other, 
we should get on rather more consecutively, 
and make things rather plainer. John Roke- 
smith mentioned, a while ago, that he had no 
present occupation.” 

‘¢None,” said Rokesmith. 

‘No, Pa, none,” said Bella. 

‘¢From which I argue,” proceeded the cher- 
ub, ‘that he has left Mr. Boffin ?” 

‘¢Yes, Pa. And so—’” 

‘<Stop a bit, my dear. I wish to lead up to 
it by degrees. And that Mr. Boffin has not 
treated him well ?” 

‘« Has treated him most shamefully, dear Pa 
cried Bella with a flashing face. 

‘¢Of which,” pursued the cherub, enjoining 


*» 


? 


young person distantly related to myself could 


‘‘Could not approve, sweet Pa,” said Bella, 
with a tearful laugh and a joyful kiss. 
‘‘Upon which,” pursued the cherub, ‘‘the 
certain mercenary young person distantly relat- — 
ed to myself, having previously observed and — 


mentioned to myself that prosperity was spoiling 


Mr. Boffin, felt that she must not sell her sense 
of what was right and what was wrong, and 
what was true and what was false, and what was 
just and what was unjust, for any price that 
could be paid to her by any one alive? AmT 
leading up to it right?” 
With another tearful laugh Bella joyfully 
kissed him again. 
‘¢ And therefore—and therefore,” the cherub 
went on in a glowing voice, as Bella’s hand stole 
gradually up his waistcoat to his neck, ‘‘this 
mercenary young person distantly related to my- — 
self refused the price, took off the splendid fash- 
ions that were part of it, put on the compara- 
tively poor dress that I had last given her, and — 
trusting to my supporting her in what was right, 
came straight tome. Have I led up to it?” 
Bella’s hand was round his neck by this time, 
and her face was on it. 
‘“The mercenary young person distantly re 


lated to myself,” said her good father, ‘‘ did a 


well! The mercenary young person distantly — 
related to myself did not trust tome in vain! I~ 


rn 


here, is what tickles me. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


admire this mercenary young person distantly 
related to myself more in this dress than if she 
kad come to me in China silks, Cashmere shawls, 
and Golconda diamonds. I love this young per- 
son dearly. I say to the man of this young per- 
son’s heart, out of my heart and with all of it, 
‘My blessing on this engagement betwixt vou, 


and she brings you a good fortune when she 


brings you the poverty she has accepted for your 
sake and tlie honest truth’s ’” 

The stanch little man’s voice failed him as he 
gave John Rokesmith his hand, and he was si- 
lent, bending his face low over his daughter. 
But not for long. He soon looked up, saying in 
a sprightly tone: 

“And now, my dear child, if you think you 
can entertain John Rokesmith for a minute and 
a half, Pll run over to the Dairy, and fetch hem 
a cottage loaf and a drink of milk, that we may 
all have tea together.” 

It was, as Bella gayly said, like the supper 
provided for the three nursery hobgoblins at their 
house in the forest, without their thunderous low 
growlings of the alarming discovery, ‘‘Some- 
body’s been drinking my milk!” It was a deli- 


cious repast; by far the most delicious that 


Bella, or John Rokesmith, or even R. Wilfer had 
ever made. The uncongenial oddity of its sur- 
roundings, with the two brass knobs of the iron 
safe of Chicksey, Veneering, and Stobbles star- 
ing from a corner, like the eyes of some dull 
dragon, only made it the more delightful. 

“To think,” said the cherub, looking round 
the office with unspeakable enjoyment, ‘‘ that 
any thing of a tender natute should come off 
f To think that ever I 
should have seen my Bella folded in the arms of 


her future husband, here, you know !” 


It was not until the cottage loaves and the 
milk had for some time disappeared, and the fure- 
shadowings of night were creeping over Mincing 
Lane, that the cherub by degrees became a little 
nervous, and said to Bella, as he cleared his throat: 

‘“¢ Hem !—Have you thought at all about your 
mother, my dear?” 

‘oY ees7b a.” 

“* And your sister Lavvy, for instance, my 
dear ?” . 

“Yes, Pa. I think we had better not enter 
into particulars at home. I think it will be quite 
enough to say that I had a difference with Mr. 


“ Boffin, and have left for good.” 


‘¢ John Rokesmith being acquainted with your 
Ma, my love,” said her'father, after some slight 
hesitation, ‘‘I need have no delicacy in hinting 
before him that you may perhaps find your Ma 
a little wearing.” 

‘* A little, patient Pa?” said Bella with a tune- 
ful laugh: the tunefuler for being so loving in 
its tone. | 

‘‘Well! We'll say, strictly in confidence 
among ourselves, wearing; we won’t qualify 
it,” the cherub stoutly admitted. ‘‘And your 
sister’s temper is wearing.” 

‘*] don’t mind, Pa.” 

‘“¢ And you must prepare yourself, you know, 


_my precious,” said her father, with much gentle- 


ness, ‘‘ for our looking very poor and meagre at 


home, and being at the best but very uncomfort- 


able, after Mr. Boffin’s house.” 


“‘T don’t mind, Pa. I could bear much harder 


trials—for John.” 


17 


265 


_ The closing words were not so softly and blush- 
ingly said but that John heard them, and showed 
that he heard them by again assisting Bella to 
another of those mysterious disappearances. 

‘* Well!” said the cherub gayly, and not ex- 
pressing disapproval, ‘‘when you—when you 
come back from retirement, my love, and reap- 
pear on the surface, I think it will be time to 
lock up and go.” ; 

If the counting-house of Chicksey, Veneering, 
and Stobbles had ever been shut up by three hap- 
pier people, glad as most people were to shut it 
up, they must have been superlatively happy in- 
deed. But first Bella mounted upon Rumty’s 
Perch, and said, ‘‘Show me what you do here 
all day long, dear Pa. Do you write like this?” 
laying her round cheek upon her plump left arm, 
and losing sight of her pen in waves of hair, in a 
highly unbusiness-like manner. ‘Though John 
Rokesmith seemed to like it. 

So the three hobgoblins, having effaced all 
traces of their feast, and swept up the crumbs, 
came out of Mincing Lane to walk to Holloway ; 
and if two of the hobgoblins didn’t wish the dis- 
tance twice as long as it was, the third hobgoblin 
was much mistaken. Indeed, that modest spirit 
deemed himself so much in the way of their deep 
enjoyment of the journey that he apologetically 
remarked: ‘I think, my dears, I'll take the lead 
on the other side of the road, and. seem not to 
belong to you.” Which he did, cherubically 
strewing the path with smiles, in the absence of 
flowers. 

It was almost ten o’clock when they stopped 
within view of Wilfer Castle; and then, the spot 
being quiet and deserted, Bella began a series 
of disappearances which threatened to last all 
night. 

‘‘T think, John,” the cherub hinted at last, 
“that if you can spare me the young person dis- 
tantly related to myself, Pll take her in.” 

‘‘T can’t spare her,” answered John, “but I 
must lend her to you—My Darling!” A word 
of magic which caused Bella instantly to disap- 
pear again. 

‘‘Now, dearest Pa,” said Bella, when she be- 
came visible, ‘‘ put your hand in mine, and we'll 
run home as fast as ever we can run, and get it 
over. Now, Pa. Once!—” 

‘¢My dear,” the cherub faltered, with some- 
thing of a craven air, ‘‘I was going to observe 
that if your mother—” 

‘©You mustn’t hang back, Sir, to gain time,” 
cried Bella, putting out her right foot ; ‘¢do you 
see that, Sir? That's the mark; come up to the 
mark, Sir. Once! Twice! ‘Three times and 
away, Pa!” Offshe skimmed, bearing the cherub 
along, nor ever stopped, nor suffered him to stop, 
until she had pulled at the bell. ‘‘ Now, dear 
Pa,” said Bella, taking him by both ears as if 
he were a pitcher, and conveying his face to her 
rosy lips, ‘‘ we are in for it!” : 

Miss Lavvy came out to open the gate, wait- 
ed on by that attentive cavalier and friend of the 
family, Mr. George Sampson. ‘““Why, it’s nev- 
er Bella!” exclaimed Miss Lavvy, starting back 
at the sight. And then bawled, ‘‘Ma! Here’s 
Bella!” ee 

This produced, before they could get into the 
house, Mrs. Wilfer. Who, standing in the port- 
al, received them with ghostly gloom, and all 
her other appliances of ceremony. 


266 


‘‘ My child is welcome, though unlooked for,” 
said she, at the time presenting her cheek as if 
jt were a cool slate for visitors to enroll them- 
selves upon. ‘*You, too, R. W., are welcome, 
though late. Does the male domestic of Mrs. 
Boffin hear me there?” ‘This deep-toned in- 
‘quiry was cast forth into the night, for response 

from the menial in question. 

“There is no one waiting, Ma, dear,” said 
Bella. 

“There is no one waiting?” repeated Mrs. 
Wilfer, in majestic accents. 

‘No, Ma dear.” 

A dignified shiver pervaded Mrs. Wilfer’s 
shoulders and gloves, as who should say, ‘‘An 
Enigma!” and then she marched at the head of 
the procession to the family keeping-room, where 
she observed : 

‘‘ Unless, R. W.:” who started on being sol- 
emnly turned upon: ‘‘you have taken the pre- 
caution of making some addition to our frugal 
supper on your way home, it will prove but a 
distasteful one to Bella. Cold neck of mutton 
and a lettuce can ill compete with the luxuries 
of Mr. Boffin’s board.” 

‘Pray don’t talk like that, Ma dear,” said 
Bella; ‘Mr. Boffin’s board is nothing to me.” 

But, here Miss Lavinia, who had been intent- 
ly eying Bella’s bonnet, struck in with “ Why, 
Bella!” 

_ “Yes, Lavvy, I know.” 

The Irrepressible lowered her eyes to Bella’s 
dress, and stooped to look at it, exclaiming again: 
“Why, Bella!” 

‘¢ Yes, Lavvy, I know what I have got on. I 
was going to tell Ma when you interrupted. I 
have left Mr. Boffin’s house for good, Ma, and I 
have come home again.” 

Mrs. Wilfer spake no word, but, having glared 
at her offspring for a minute or two in an aw- 
ful silence, retired into her corner of state back- 
ward, and sat down: like a frozen article on 
sale in a Russian market. 

“In short, dear Ma,” said Bella, taking off 
the depreciated bonnet and shaking out her hair, 
‘‘T have had a very serious difference with Mr. 
Boffin on the subject of his treatment of a mem- 
ber of his household, and it’s a final difference, 
and there’s an end of all.” 

‘And Lam bound to tell you, my dear,” added 
R. W., submissively, ‘that Bella has acted in a 
truly brave spirit, and with a truly right feeling. 
And therefore I hope, my dear, you'll not allow 
yourself to be greatly disappointed.” 

‘‘George!”—said Miss Lavyy, in a sepul- 
chral, warning voice, founded on her mother’s 
—‘‘ George Sampson, speak! What did I tell 
you about those Boffins ?” 

Mr. Sampson, perceiving his frail bark to be 
laboring among shoals and breakers, thought it 
safest not to refer back to any particular thing 
that he had been told, lest he should refer back 
to the wrong thing. With admirable seaman- 
ship he got his bark into deep water by murmur- 
ing, ‘* Yes, indeed.” 

‘¢Yes! I told George Sampson, as George 
Sampson tells you,’”? said Miss Lavvy, ‘‘ that 
those hateful Boffins would pick a quarrel with 
Bella as soon as her novelty had worn off. Have 

they done it, or have they not? Was I right, 
or was I wrong? And what do you say to us, 
Bella, of your Boffins now ?”’ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. . me 


‘“‘Lavvy and Ma,” said Bella, ‘‘T say of Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin what I always have said; and 
I always shall say of them what I always have 
said. But nothing will induce me to quarrel 
with any one to-night. I hope you are not 
sorry to see me, Ma dear,” kissing her; ‘‘ and I 


hope you are not sorry to see me, Lavvy,”’ kiss- 
fing her too; ‘¢and as I notice the lettuce Ma 
mentioned on the table, I’ll make the salad.” 


Bella playfully setting herself about the task, 
Mrs. Wilfer’s impressive countenance followed 
her with glaring eyes, presenting a combination 
of the once popular sign of the Saracen’s Head 
with a piece of Duteh clock-work, and suggest- 
ing to an imaginative mind that from the com- | 
position of the salad her daughter might pru- 
dently omit the vinegar. But no word issued 
from the majestic matron’s lips. And this was 
more terrific to her husband (as perhaps she 
knew) than any flow of eloquence with which 
she could have edified the company. 

‘Now, Ma dear,” said Bella in due course, 
‘‘the salad’s ready, and it’s past supper-time.” 

Mrs. Wilfer rose, but remained speechless. 
‘‘George!” said Miss Lavinia, in her voice of 
warning, ‘‘Ma’s chair!” Mr. Sampson flew to 
the excellent lady’s back, and followed her up 
close, chair in hand, as she stalked to the ban- 
quet. Arrived at the table, she took her rigid — 
seat, after favoring Mr. Sampson with a glare — 
for himself, which caused the young gentleman ~ 
to retire to his place in much confusion. 

The cherub not presuming to address so tre- 
mendous an object, transacted her supper through 
the agency of a third person, as ‘‘ Mutton to your 
Ma, Bella, my dear;” and ‘‘Lavvy, I dare say 
your Ma would.take some lettuce if you were to 
put it on her plate.” Mrs. Wilfer’s manner of 
receiving those viands was marked by petrified 
absence of mind; in which state, likewise, she 
partook of them, occasionally laying down her | 
knife and fork, and saying within her own spir- 
it, ‘¢ What is this I am doing?” and glaring at 
one or other of the party, as ifin indignant search 
of information. A magnetic result of such glar- 
ing was, that the person glared at could not by 
any means successfully pretend to be ignorant 
of the fact; so that a by-stander, without be- 
holding Mrs. Wilfer at all, must have known at 
whom she was glaring, by seeing her refracted 
from the countenance of the beglared one. 

Miss Lavinia was extremely affable to Mr. 
Sampson on this special occasion, and took the 
opportunity of informing her sister why. . 

‘Tt was not worth troubling you about, Bel- 
la, when you were in a sphere so far removed 
from your family as to make it a matter in which 
you could be expected to take very little inter- 
est,” said Lavinia with a toss of herchin; “brut 
George Sampson is paying his addresses to me.” 

Bella was glad to hear it. Mr. Sampson be- 
came thoughtfully red, and felt called upon to 
encircle Miss Lavinia’s waist with his arm; but, 
encountering a large pin in the young lady’s — 
belt, scarified a-finger, uttered a sharp exclama-_ 
tion, and attracted the lightning of Mrs. Wil- 
fer’s glare. . 

‘‘George is getting on very well,”’ said Miss 
Lavinia—which might not have been supposed © 
at the moment—‘‘and I dare say we shall be — 
married one of these days. I didn’t care to 
mention it when you were with your Bof—" — 


Se, 


' 
v 
; 


Wl 


. 


or whether her spitefulness was evoked by Bella’s | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


here Miss Lavinia checked herself in a bounce, | 
and added more placidly, ‘‘ when you were with. 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin; but now I think it sisterly | 
to name the circumstance.” | 
“Thank you, Lavvy dear. I congratulate 
you.” 3 
‘Thank you, Bella. The truth is, George 
and I did discuss whether I should tell you; but 
I said to George that you wouldn’t be much in- 
terested in so paltry an affair, and that it was 
far more likely you would rather detach your- 
self from us altogether, than have him added to. 
the rest of us,” . 
“That was a mistake, dear Lavvy,” said | 
Bella. ) 
**It turns out to be,” replied Miss Lavinia ; 
‘*but circumstances have changed, you know, 
my dear. George is in a new situation, and his 
prospects are very good indeed. I shouldn't have 
had the courag® to tell you so yesterday, when 
you would have thought his prospects poor, and | 
not worth notice; but [ feel quite bold to-night.” | 
“When did you begin to feel timid, Lavvy ?” | 
inquired Bella, with a smile. 
.. “I didn’t say that I ever felt timid, Bella,” 
replied the Irrepressible. ‘‘ But perhaps I might 
have said, if I had not been restrained by deli- 
cacy toward a sister’s feelings, that I have for 
Some time felt independent; too independent, 
my dear, to subject myself to have my intended 
match (youll prick yourself again, George) 
looked down upon. Is is not that I could have | 
blamed you for looking down upon it, when you 
were looking up to a rich and great match, 
Bella; it is only that I was independent.” 
Whether the Ivrepressible felt slighted by 
Bella’s declaration that she would not quarrel, 


‘return to the sphere of Mr. George Sampson’s | 
courtship, or whether it was a necessary fillip to 
her spirits that she should come into collision 
with somebody on the present occasion—any 
how she made a dash at her stately parent now, 
with the greatest impetuosity. 

‘* Ma, pray don’t sit staring at me in that in- 
tensely aggravating manner! If you see a black | 
on my nose, tell me so; if you don’t, leave me 
alone.” 

**Do you address Me in those words?’ said 
Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘Do you presume?” 
~ Don’t talk about presuming, Ma, for good- 
ness’ sake. A girl who is old enough to be en- 
gaged, is quite old enough to object to be stared 
at as if she was a Clock.” 

** Audacious one!” said Mrs. Wilfer. ‘Your 
grandmamma, if so addressed by one of her 
daughters, at any age, would have insisted on 
her retiring to a dark apartment.” 

“My grandmamma,” returned Lavvy, fold- 
ing her arms and leaning back in her chair, 
*‘wouldn’t have sat staring people out of coun- 
tenance, I think.” 

“She would,” said Mrs. Wilfer. 

“Then it’s a pity she didn’t know better,” said 
Lavvy. ‘And if my grandmamma wasn’t in 
her dotage when she took to insisting on people’s 
retiring to dark apartments, she ought to have 
been. A pretty exhibition my grandmamma 
must have made of herself! I wonder whether 
she ever insisted on people’s retiring into the ball 
of St. Paul's; and if she did, how she got them 
there !” 


Tell me this, Lavinia. 
-Mother’s sentiments, you had condeseended to 
_allow yourself to be patronized by the Boffins, and 


267 


** Silence!” proclaimed Mrs. Wilfer, “TI 
command silence !” 

‘*T have not the slightest intention of being 
silent, Ma,” returned Lavinia, coolly, ‘but quite 
the contrary. Iam not going to be eyed us if J 
had come from the Boffins, and sit silent under 
it. I am not going to have George Sampson 


eyed as if he had come from the Boffins, and sit 


Silent under it. If Pa thinks proper to be eyed 


as if he had come from the Boffins also, well and 
good. I don’t choose to. And I won’t!” 
Lavinia’s engineering having made this crook- 


_ed opening at Bella, Mrs. Wilfer strode into it. 


‘* You rebellions spirit! You mutinous child! 
If, in violation of your 


if you had come from those halls of slavery—” 
‘“That’s mere nonsense, Ma,” said Lavinia. 
‘* How!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilfer, with sub- 
lime severity. 
‘* Halls of slavery, Ma, is mere stuff and non- 
sense,” returned the unmoved Irreprezsible. 
‘*T say, presumptuous child, if vou had come 
from the neighborhood of Portland Place, bend- 


ing under the yoke of patronage and attended - 


by its domestics in glittering garb to visit me, 
do you think my deep-seated feelings could have 
been expressed in looks ?”’ 

‘* All I think about it is,” returned Lavinia, 
‘‘that [ should wish them expressed to the 
right person.” 

‘“¢ And if,” pursued her mother, ‘if making 
light of my warnings that the face of Mrs. Bof- 


| fin alone was a face teeming with evil, yon had 


clung to Mrs. Boffin instead of to me, and had 
after all come home rejected by Mrs. Boffin, 
trampled under foot by Mrs. Boffin, and cast 
out by Mrs. Boffin, do you think my feelings 


‘could haye been expressed in looks ?” 


Lavinia was about replying to her honored 
parent that she might as well have dispense: 
with her looks altogether then, when Bella rose 
and said, ‘‘Good-night, dear Ma. J have had 
a tiring day, and I’ll go to bed.” This broke 
up the agreeable party. Mr. George Sampson 
shortly afterward took his leave, accompanied by 
Miss Lavinia with a candle as far as the hall, 
and without a candle as far as the garden-gate ; 
Mrs. Wilfer, washing her hands of the Boffins, 
went to bed after the manner of Lady Macbeth ; 
and R. W. was left alone among the dilanida- 
tions of the supper-table, in a melancholy ati tule. 

But a light footstep roused him from his 
meditations, and it was Bella’s. Her pretty 
hair was hanging all about her, and she had 
tripped down softly, brush in hand, and bare- 
foot, to say good-night to him. 

‘“My dear, vou most unquestionably are a 
lovely “woman,” said the cherub, taking up a 
tress in his hand, 

‘Look here, Sir,” said Bella; ‘‘when your 
lovely woman marries, you shall have that piece 
if you like, and shell make you a chain of it. 
Would you prize that remembrance of the dear 
creature ?” 


‘© Yes, my precious.” ; 
‘¢Then you shall have it if yon’re good, Sir. 


Iam very, very sorry, dearest Pa, to have brought 
home all this trouble.” ; 

‘‘ My pet,” returned her father, in the simplest 
good faith, ‘‘don’t make yourself uneasy about 


268 


AY \\ 
Se 
\ Nie A 


AES 


Ss 


Boag pO 


SSS= 
SSSS=—S 
SS 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Zoe, 
oe 


(ae 


Lin 
aa 
LEZ Ca 
Sih 
il fA 
ZS 
ZZ 


Pe 
rack 


hie I: 
LIE 
g 
iui 

LA 
ZZ 


ten 
we 


eS 


Z Log 
Pee, 


te. 
LLL 
ig gk 
Ze 


< 


ae 
as 
Fs 
GEL IA 
LAE a 


SSF 
POLL EE 
CZ 

YI LALA 
SOS 


ok 
(EaET?: 
te 


nh 
SHAN 
RS | 


Ht 
ih ‘ ty 
\ ‘ Ne 


i 
ny ; 
af Kt 


THE LOVELY WOMAN HAS HER FORTUNE TOLD. 


that. It really is not worth mentioning, because | 
things at home would have taken pretty much | 
the same turn any way. If your mother and 
sister don’t find one subject to get at times a 
little wearing on, they find another. We're 
never out of a wearing subject, my dear, I assure 


you. Iam afraid you find your old room with 
Lavvy dreadfully inconvenient, Bella?” 

«No I don’t, Pa; I don’t mind, Why don’t 
I mind, do you think, Pa?” 

‘*Well, my child, you used to complain of it 
when it wasn’t such a contrast as it must be now. 
Upon my word, I can only answer, because you 
are so much improved.” 

‘¢No, Pa. Because I am so thankful and so 
happy !” 

Here she choked him until her long hair made 
him sneeze, and then she laughed until she made 
him laugh, and then she choked him again that 


they might not be overheard. 


‘‘Listen, Sir,” said Bella. ‘ Your lovely wo- 
man was told her fortune to-night on her way 
home. It won’t be a large fortune, because if 
the lovely woman’s Intended gets a certain ap- 
pointment that he hopes to get soon, she will 
marry on a hundred and fifty pounds a year, 
But that’s at first, and even if it should never 
be more, the lovely woman will make it quite ~ 
enough, But that’s not all, Sir, In the fore — 
tune there’s a certain fair man—a little man, — 
the fortune-teller. said—-who, it seems, will al- — 
ways find himself near the lovely woman, and — 
will always have kept, expressly for him, such a ~ 
peaceful corner in the lovely woman's little honse 
= never was, Tell me the name of that man, 

ir,’ 

‘¢Ig he a Knave in the pack of cards?” in- — 
quired the cherub, with a twinkle in his eyes. 

“©Yes!” cried Bella, in high glee, choking — 
him again. ‘‘He’s the Knave of Wilfers! - 


ee ag 


‘a OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


* * 

Dear Pa, the lovely woman means to look for- 
ward to this fortune that has been told for her, 
so delightfully, and to cause it to make her a 
much better lovely woman than she ever has 
been yet. What the little fair man is expected 
to do, Sir, is to look forward to it also, by say- 
ing to himself when he is in danger of being 
over-worried, ‘I see land at last !’” 

‘*T sce land at last!” repeated her father. 

‘““There’s a dear Knave of Wilfers!” ex- 
claimed Bella; then putting out her small white 
bare foot, ‘‘ That’s the mark, Sir. Come to the 
mark. Put your boot against it. We keep to 
it together, mind! Now, Sir, you may kiss the 
lovely woman before she runs away, so thankful 
and so happy. O yes, fair little man, so thank- 
ful and so happy!” 


eee 


CHAPTER XVII. 
A SOCIAL CHORUS. 


AMAZEMENT sits enthroned upon the counte- 
nances of Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lammle’s circle 
of acquaintance, when the disposal of their first- 
class furniture and effects (including a Billiard 
Table in capital letters), ‘‘by auction, under a 
bill of sale,” is publicly announced on a waving 
hearth-rug in Sackville Street. But nobody is 
half so much amazed as Hamilton Venecring, 
Esquire, M.P. for Pocket Breaches, who in- 
stantly begins to find out that the Lammles are 
the only people ever entered on his soul’s regis- 
ter who are not the oldest and dearest friends 
he has in the world. .Mrs. Veneering, W.M.P. 
for Pocket Breaches, like a faithful wife shares 
her husband's discovery and inexpressible aston- 
ishment. Perhaps the Veneerings twain may 
deem the last unutterable feeling particularly 
due to their reputation, by reason that once upon 
a time some of the longer heads in the City are 
whispered to have shaken themselves, when Ve- 
neering’s extensive dealings and great wealth 
were mentioned. But it is certain that neither 
Mr. nor Mrs. Veneering can find words to won- 
der in, and it becomes necessary that they give 
to the oldest and dearest friends they have in the 
world a wondering dinner. 

For it is by this time noticeable that, what- 
- ever befalls, the Veneerings must give a dinner 
upon it. Lady Tippins lives in a chronic state 
of invitation to dine with the Veneerings, and 
in a chronic state of inflammation arising from 
the dinners. Boots and Brewer go about in 
- cabs, with no other intelligible business on earth 
than to beat up people to come and dine with the 
Veneerings. Veneering pervades the legislative 
Idbbies, intent upon entrapping his fellow-legis- 
-lators to dinner. Mrs. Veneering dined with 

- five-and-twenty bran-new faces overnight; calls 
upon them all to-day; sends them every one 
‘a dinner-card to-morrow, for the week after 
-'next; before that dinner is digested, calls upon 
their brothers and sisters, their sons and daugh- 
ters, their nephews and nieces, their aunts and 
uncles and cousins, and invites them all to din- 
ner. And still, as at first, howsoever, the din- 
ing circle widens, it is to be observed that all 
»the diners are consistent in appearing to go to 
the Veneerings, not to dine with Mr. and Mrs. 
Venecring (which would seem to be the last 


269 


thing in their minds), but to dine with one an- 
other, 

Perhaps, after all—who knows?—Vencerigg 
may find this dining, though expensive, remu- 
nerative, in the sense that it makes champions. 
Mr. Podsnap, as a representative man, is not 
alone in caring very particularly for his own 
dignity, if not for that of his acquaintances, and 
therefore in angrily supporting the acquaintances 
who have taken out his Permit, lest, in their 
being lessened, he should be. The gold anit 
silver camels, and the ice-pails, and the rest of 
the Veneering table decorations, make a brilliant 
show, and when I, Podsnap, casually remark elsc- 
where that I dined last Monday with a gorgeous. 
caravan of camels, I find it personally offensive 


| to have it hinted to me that they are broken- 
{ kneed camels, or camels laboring under sus- 
ipicion of any sort. 
myself, I am above them; I am a more solid 
man; but these camels have basked in the light 


‘“*T don’t display camels. 


of my countenance, and how dare you, Sir, in- 


| sinuate to me that I have irradiated any but un-. 


impeachable camels ?” 

The eamels are polishing up in the Analyt-. 
ical’s pantry for the dinner of wonderment on 
the oceasion of the Lammles going to pieces, 
and Mr. Twemlow feels a little queer on the 
sofa at his lodgings over the stable yard in 
Duke Street, Saint James’s, in consequence of 
having taken two advertised pills at about mid. 
day, on the faith of the printed representation: 
accompanying the box (price one and a penny 
halfpenny, government stamp included), that: 
the same ‘‘ will be found highly salutary as a. 
precautionary measure in connection with the: 
pleasures of the table.”’? To whom, while sickly: 
with the fancy of an insoluble pill sticking in: 
his gullet, and also with the sensation of a de-. 
posit of warm gum languidly wandering within, 
him a little lower down, a servant enters with 
the announcement that a lady wishes to speak. 
with him. 

‘* A lady!” says Twemlow, pluming his ruffled. 
feathers. ‘* Ask the favor of the lady’s name.” 

The lady’s name is Lammle. The lady will! 
not detain Mr. Twemlow longer than a very few 
minutes. The lady is sure that Mr. 'Twemlow 
will do her the kindness to see her, on being told 
that she particularly desires a short interview.. 


The ladv has no doubt whatever of Mr. ‘Twem-. 
1 Has. 


low’s compliance when he hears hername. H 
begged the servant to be particular not to mis- 
take her name. Would have sent in a card, but 
has none. 

‘¢ Show the lady in.” Lady shown in, comes 
in. 

Mr. Twemlow’s little rooms are modestly fur- 
nished, in an old-fashioned manner (rather like 
the housekeeper’s room at Snigsworthy Park), 
and would be bare of mere ornament were it not 
for a full-length engraving of the sublime Snigs- 
worth over the chimney-picce, snorting at a 
Corinthian column, with an enormous, roll of 
paper at his feet, and a heavy curtain going to 
tumble down on his head; those accessories be-- 
ing understood to represent the noble lord as. 
somehow in the act of saving his country. 

‘‘Pray take a seat, Mrs. Lammle.” Mrs. 
Lammle takes a seat and opens the conversa- 
tion. 


‘‘] have no doubt, Mr. Twemlow, that you. 


270 


have heard of a reverse of fortune having be- 
fallen us. Of course you have heard of it, for 
no kind of news travels so fast—among vune’s 
friends especially.” 

Mindful of the wondering dinner, Twemlow, 
with a little twinge, admits the imputation, 

‘¢ Probably it will not,” says Mrs. Lammle, 
with a certain hardened manner upon her, that 
makes ‘T'wemlow shrink, ‘‘ have surprised you 
so much as some others, after what passed be- 
tween us at the house which is now turned out 
at windows, I have taken the liberty of calling 
upon you, Mr, ‘T'wemlow, to add a sort of post- 
script to what I said that day.” 

Mr. Twemlow’s dry and hollow cheeks become 
more dry and hollow at the prospect of some 
new complication, 

‘Really,” says the uneasy little gentleman, 
“** really, Mrs, Lammle, I should take it as a fa- 
vor if you could excuse me from any further 
confidence. It has ever been one of the objects 
of my life—which, unfortunately, has not had 
many ohjects—to be inoffensive, and to keep out 
of cabals and interferences.” 

Mrs. Lammle, by far the more observant of 


| 


| 


ake Maia awe 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. aust oF 


‘Cas between me (from the first relying on your 
honor) and you, that I will not waste anothe 
word upon it.” She looks steadily at Mr. T'wem- 
low, until, with a shrug, he makes her a little 
one-sided bow, as though saying “‘ Yes, I think 
you have a right to rely upon me,” and then 
she moistens her lips, and shows a sense-of re- 
licf. 

‘“‘T trust I have kept the promise I made 
through your servant, that I would detain yowa 
very few minutes. 
Mr. Twemlow.” 

‘Stay !” says Twemlow, rising as she rises, 
“Pardon me a moment. I should never have 
sought you out, madam, to say what [ am going 
to say, but since you have sought me out and 
are here, I will throw it off my mind. Was it 
quite consistent, in candor, with our taking that 


resolution against Mr. Fledgeby, that you should 


afterward address Mr. Fledgeby as your dear 
and confidential friend, and entreat a favor of 
Mr. Fledgeby ? Always supposing that you did ; 
I assert no knowledge of my own on the “subject ; : 
it has been represented to me that you did.” 
‘Then he told you?” retorts Mrs. Lammle, 


the two, scarcely finds it necessary to look at! who again has saved her eyes while listening, 


Twemlow while he speaks, so easily does she | 


read him. 

“‘My postscript—to retain the term I have 
used””—says Mrs. Lammle, fixing her eyes on his 
face, to enforce what she says _herself— 
cides exactly with what vou say, Mr. Twemlow, 
So far from troubling you with any new confi- 
dence, I merely wish to remind you what the-old 
one was. So far from asking you for interfer- 
ence, I merely wish to claim your strict neutral- 
ity.” ; 

Twemlow going on to reply, she rests her eyes 
again, knowing her ears to be quite enough for 
the contents of so weak a vessel. 

‘*T can, I suppose,” says 'Twemlow, nervously, 
‘offer no reasonable objection to hearing any 
thing that you do me the honor to wish to say 
tome under those heads. But if 1 may, with all 
possible delicacy and politeness, entreat you not 
to range beyond them, I—I beg to do so.” 

‘<Sir,” says Mrs. Lammie, raising her eves to 
his face again, and quite daunting him with her 
hardened manner, ‘‘I imparted to you a certain 
piece of knowledge, to be imparted again, as 
you thonght best, to a certain person.” 

‘* Which I did,” says Twemlow. 

‘* And for doing which, I thank yous; though, 
indeed, I scareely know why I turned traitress 
to my ‘husband in the matter, for the girl is a 
poor little fool, I was a poor little fool once 
myself; I can find no better reason.” Seeing 
the effect she produces on him by her indifferent 
laugh and cold look, she keeps her eyes upon 
jim as she proceeds, ‘‘ Mr. Twemlow, if you 

s'iould chance to see my husband, or to see me, 
or to see both of us, in the favor or confidence 
of any one else—whether of our common ac- 
quaintance or not, is of no conscquence—you 
have no right to use against us the knowledge 
J intrusted you with, for one special purpose 
which has been accomplished, This is what I 
eame to say. It is not a stipulation; to a gen- 
tleman it is simply a reminder.” 

Twemlow sits murmuring to himself with his 
hand to his forehead. 

‘*It is so plain a case,”” Mrs. Lammle goes on, 


‘coins | 


| 


and uses them with strong effect while speak- 
ing. 
66 Ves ” 


‘Tt is strange that he should have told you 


q 


the truth,” says Mrs. Lammle, seriously ponder- 
ing. ‘*Pray where did a circumstance so very 
extraordinary happen ?” 

Twemlow hesitates. He is shorter than the 
lady as well as weaker, and, as she stands above 
him with her hardened manner and her well- 


used eyes, he finds himself at such a disadvant-. 


ave that he would like to be of the opposite 
SEX, 

‘* May I ask where it happened, Mr. Twem- 
low? In strict confidence ?” 

‘¢] must confess,” says the mild little gentle- 


/man, coming to his answer by degrees, ‘‘ that, I 


felt some compunctions when Mr. Fledgeby men- 
tioned it, I must admit that I could not regard 
myself in an agreeable light. More particular- 
ly, as Mr. Fledgeby did, with great. civility, 
which I could not feel that I deserved from him, 
render me the same service that you had en- 
treated hii to render you.” 

It isa part of the true nobility of the poor gen- 
tleman’s soul to say this a, sentence. 
wise,” he has reflected, “I shall assume-the su- 
perior position of ite no difficulties of my 
own, while I know of hers. Which would be 
mean, very mean.” 

‘*Was Mr. Fledgeby’s advocacy as effectual 
in your case as in ours?” Mrs. Lammle de- 
mans, 

“¢ As ineffectual.” 

‘<Can you make up your mind to tell me. 
where you saw Mr. Fledgeby, Mr, ‘Twemlow ¢” 

“T beg your pardon. I fully intended to have 
done so, The reservation was not intentional. 
I encountered Mr. Fledgeby, quite by accident, 
on the spot.—-By the expression, on ‘the spot, s 
mean at Mr. Riah’s in Saint Mary Axe.” 


‘‘ Have you the misfortune to be in Mr. Riah’s © 


hands then ?” 

‘Unfortunately, madam,” returns Twemlow, 
‘the one money-obligation to which I stand 
committed, the one debt of my ee (but it is a 


I need trouble you no longer, * 


a ee ee ee eee 


‘¢Other-— 


A, ee Les ag ee Eo 


Ss 


we ee oe 


as eee a 


_- words? Because they state the fact. 
_you Aave no proof.” 


just debt; pray observe that I don’t dispute it), 


-has fallen into Mr. Riah’s hands.” 
‘¢Mr. Twemlow,” says Mrs. Lammle, fixing 


his eyes with hers: which he would prevent’ her 
doing if he could, but he can’t; “‘it has fallen 
into Mr. Fledgeby’s hands. Mr. Riah is his 
mask. It has fallen into Mr. Fledgeby’s hands. 
Let me tell you that, for your guidance. The 
information may be of use to you, if only to pre- 
vent your credulity, in judging another man’s 
truthfulness by your own, from being imposed 
upon.” 

** Impossible !” cries Twemlow, standing aghast. 
“¢How do you Know it ?” 

‘‘T scarcely know how I know it. The whole 
train of circumstances seemed to take fire at 
once, and show it to me.” 

‘Oh! Then you have no proof.” 

‘‘Tt is very strange,” savs Mrs. Lammle, cold- 


ly and boldly, and with some disdain, ‘‘ how like 


men are to one another in some things, though 
their characters are as different as can be! No 
two men can have less affinity between them, 


. one would say, than Mr. Twemlow and my hus- 
-band. Yet my husband replies to me ‘You 


have no proof,’ and Mr. Twemlow replies to me 
with the very same words!” 

‘‘But why, madam ?” Twemlow ventures gen- 
tly to argue. ‘‘Consider why the very same 
Because 


‘¢ Men are very wise in their way,” quoth Mrs. 


Lammle, glancing haughtily at the Snigsworth 


portrait, and shaking out her dress before de- 
parting; ‘‘but they have wisdom to learn. My 
husband; who is not over-confiding, ingenuous, 
or inexperienced, sees this plain thing no more 
than Mr. Twemlow.does—because there is no 
proof! Yet I believe five women out of six, in 
my place, would see it as clearly as Ido. How- 
ever, I will never rest (if only in remembrance 
of Mr. Fledgeby’s having kissed my hand) until 
thy husband does see it. And you will do well 
for yourself to see it from this time forth, Mr. 
Twemlow, though I can give you no proof.” 

As she moves toward the door, Mr. Twemlow, 
attending on her, expresses his soothing hope 
that the condition of Mr. Lammile’s affairs is not 
irretrievable. © 

‘¢T don’t know,” Mrs. Lammle answers, stop- 


ping, and sketching out the pattern of the paper | 


on. the wall with the point of her parasol; ‘‘it 
depends. There may be an opening for him 
dawning now, or there may be none. We shall 
soon find out, If none, we are bankrupt here, 
and must go abroad, I suppose.” 
- Mr. Twemlow, in his good-natured desire to 
make the best of it, remarks that there are pleas- 
ant lives abroad. 

“Yes,” returns Mrs. Lammle, still sketching 
on the wall; ‘but I doubt whether billiard-play- 


ing, card-playing, and so forth, for the means | 


to live under suspicion at a dirty table-d’hote, is 
one of them.” 
It is much for Mr. Lammle, Twemlow polite- 
ly intimates (though greatly shocked), to have 
one always beside him who is attached to him in 


all his fortunes, and whose restraining influence 


will prevent him from courses that would be 
discreditable and ruinous. As he says it, Mrs. 
Lammle leaves off sketching, and looks at him. 

‘‘ Restraining influence, Mr. Twemlow? We 


Pee A i 
te Sn mar 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


271 


must eat and drink, and dress, and have a roof 
over our heads. Always beside him and at- 
tached in all his fortunes? Not much to boast 
of in that; what can a woman at my age do? 
My husband and I deceived one another when 
we married; we must bear the consequences of 
the deception—that is to say, bear one another, 
and bear the burden of scheming together for 
to-day’s dinner and to-morrow’s breakfast—till 
death divorces us.” 

With those words she walks out into Duke 
Street, Saint James’s. Mr. Twemlow returning 
to his sofa, lays down his aching head on its 
slippery little horse-hair bolster, with a strong 
internal conviction that a painful interview is 
not the kind of thing to be taken after the din- 
ner pills which are so highly salutary in connec- 
tion with the pleasures of the table. 

But six o’clock in the evening finds the wor- 
thy little gentleman getting better, and also get- 
ting himself into his obsolete little silk stockings 
and pumps, for the wondering dinner at the Ve- 
neerings. And seven o'clock in the evening 
finds him trotting out into Duke Street, to trot 
to the corner and save a sixpence in coach-hire. 

Tippins the divine has dined herself into such 
a condition by this time that a morbid mind 
might desire her, for a blessed change, to sup at 
last and turn into bed. Such a mind has Mr, 


Eugene Wrayburn, whom Twemlow finds con- 


templating Tippins with the moodiest of vis- 
ages, while that playful creature rallies him on 
being so long overdue at the woolsack. Skittish 
is Tippins with Mortimer Lightwood too, and 
has raps to give him with her fan for having 
been best man at the nuptials of these deceiving 
what’s-their-names who have, gone to picces. 
Though, indeed, the fan is generally lively, and 
taps away at the men in all ‘directions, with 
something of a grizzly sound suggestive of the 
clattering of Lady Tippins’s bones. 

A new race of intimate friends has sprung up 
at Veneecring’s since he went into Parliament 
for the gnblic good, to whom Mrs. Veneering is 
very attentive, ‘These friends, like astronomic- 
al distances, are only to be spoken of in the very 
largest figures. Boots says that one of them is 
a Contractor who (it has been calculated) gives 
employment, directly and indirectly, to five hun- 
dred thousand men. Brewer says that another 
of them isa Chairman, in such request at so 
many Boards, so far apart, that he never tray- 
els less by railway than three thousand miles a 
week. Buffer says that another of them hadn't 
a sixpence eighteen months ago, and, through 
the brilliancy of his genius in getting those 
shares issued at eighty-five, and buying them 
all up with no money and selling them at par 
for cash, has now three hundred and seventy- 
five thousand pounds—Buffer particularly in- 
sisting on the odd seventy-five, and declining to 
take a farthing less. With Buffer, Boots, and 
Brewer, Lady Tippins is eminently facetious on — 
the subject of these Fathers of the Serip-Church : 
surveying them through her eye-glass, and in- 
quiring whether Boots and Brewer and Buffer 
think they will make her fortune if she makes 
love to them ? with other pleasantries of that na- 
ture. Veneering, in his different way, 16 much 
ocenpied with the Fathers too, piously retiring 
with them into the conservatory, from which 
retreat the word ‘‘Committce” is occasionally 


272 


heard, and where the Fathers instruct Veneer- 
ing how he must leave the valley of the piqno 
on his left, take the level of the mantle-piece, 
cross by an open cutting at the candelabra, seize 
the carrying-traffic at the console, and cut up 
the opposition root and branch at the window 
curtains. 

Mr. and Mrs, Podsnap are of the company, 
and the Fathers descry in Mrs. Podsnap a fine 
woman. She is consigned to a Father—Boots’s 
Father, who employs five hundred thousand 
men—and is brought to anchor on Veneering’s 
left; thus affording opportunity to the sportive 
Tippins on his right (he, as usual, being mere 
vacant space), to entreat to be told something 
about those loves of Navvies, and whether they 
do really live on raw beef-steaks, and drink por- 
ter out of their barrows. But in spite of such 
little skirmishes jt is felt that this was to be a 
wondering dinner, and that the wondering must 
not be neglected. Accordingly, Brewer, as the 
man who has the greatest reputation to sustain, 
becomes the interpreter of the general instinct. 

‘IT took,” says Brewer, in a favorable pause, 
**a cab this morning, and I rattled off to that 
Sale.” 

Boots (devoured by envy) says, ‘‘ So did I.” 

Buffer says, ‘‘So did I;” but can find nobody 
to care whether he did or not. 

‘¢ And what was it like ?” inquires Veneering. 

**T assure you,” replies Brewer, looking about 
for any body else to address his answer to, and 
giving the preference to Lightwood; ‘I assure 
you, the things were going for a song. Hand- 
some things enough, but fetching nothing.” 

**So [heard this afternoon,” says Lightwood. 

Brewer begs to know now, would it be fair to 
ask a professional man how—on—earth—these 
— people—ever—did—come—to—such—a—to- 
tal smash?” (Brewer’s divisions being for em- 
phasis.) 

Lightwood replies that he was consulted cer- 
tainly, but could give no opinion which would 
pay off the Bill of Sale, and thereforfviolates 
no confidence in supposing that it came of their 
living beyond their means. 

‘* But how,” says Veneering, ‘‘can people do 
that!” 

Hah! That is felt on all hands to be a shot 
in the bull’s-eye. How can people do that! 
The Analytical Chemist going round with Cham- 
pagne looks very much as if he could give them 
a pretty good idea how people did that, if he 
had a mind. 

‘*How,”’ says Mrs. Veneering, laying down 
her fork to press her aquiline hands together at 
the tips of the fingers, and addressing the Fa- 
ther who travels the three thousand miles per 
week: ‘‘how a mother can look at her baby, 
and know that she lives beyond her husband's 
means, I can not imagine.”’ 

Eugene suggests that Mrs. Lammle, not being 
a mother, had no baby to look at. 

**'True,” says Mrs. Veneering, ‘‘ but the prin- 
eiple is the same.” 

Boots is clear that the principle is the same. 
Se is Buffer. It is the unfortunate destiny of 
Buffer to damage a cause by espousing it. The 
rest of the company have meekly yielded to the 
proposition that the principle is the same, until 
Buffer says it is; when instantly a general mur- 
mur arises that the principle is not the same. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘the discussion of these people’s affairs. 


Wa 4 


% 


“But I don’t understand,” says the Father 
of the three hundred and seventy-five thousand 
pounds, ‘‘—if these people spoken of occupied 
the position of being in society—they were in 
society ?” ‘ 


Veneering is bound to confess that they dined 


here, and were even married from here. 


‘‘Then I don’t understand,” pursues the Fa- 


ther, ‘‘ how even their living beyond their means 
could bring them to what has been termed a total 
smash. Because there is always such a thing as 
an adjustment of affairs in the case of people of 
any standing at-all.” 

Eugene (who would seem to be in a gloomy 
state of suggestiveness) suggests, ‘* Suppose you 
have no means and live beyond them ?” 

This is too insolvent a state of things for the 
Father to entertain. 
of things for any one with any self-respect to en- 
tertain, and is universally scouted. But it is so 
amazing how any people can have come to a to- 
tal smash that every body feels bound to account 
for it specially. One of the Fathers says, ‘‘ Gam- 
ing-table.” Another of the Fathers says, ‘‘ Spec- 
ulated without knowing that speculation is a 
science.” Boots says, ‘‘ Horses.” Lady Tippins 
says to her fan, ‘*‘ Two establishments.” Mr. 
Podsnap, saying nothing, is referred to for his 
opinion; which he delivers as follows, much 
flushed and extremely angry: 

‘“‘Don’t ask me. I desire to take no part in 
I abhor 
the subject. It is an odions subject, an offensive 
subject, a subject that makes me sick, and I—” 
And with his favorite right-arm flourish, which 
sweeps away every thing and settles it forever, 
Mr. Podsnap sweeps these inconveniently unex- 
nlainable wretches who have lived beyond their 

neans and gone to total smash off the face of 
the universe. 

Eugene, leaning back in his chair, is observ- 
ing Mr. Podsnap with an irreverent face, and 
may be about to offer a new suggestion, when 
the Analytical is beheld in collision with the 
Coachman; the Coachman manifesting a pur- 
pose of coming at the company with a silver sal- 
ver, as though intent upon making a collection 
for his wife and family; the Analytical cutting 
him off at the sideboard. The superior stateli- 
ness, if not the superior generalship, of the Ana- 
lytical prevails over a man who is as nothing off 
the box; and the Coachman, yielding up his 
salver, retires defeated. 

Then the Analytical, perusing a scrap of pa- 
per lying on the salver with the air of a literary 
Censor, adjusts it, takes his time about going to 
the table with it, and presents it to Mr. Eugene 
Wrayburn. Whereupon the pleasant Tippins 
says aloud, ‘*The Lord Chancellor has re- 
signed !” 

With distracting coolness and slowness—for he 
knows the curiosity of the Charmer to be always 
devouring—Eugene makes a pretense of getting 


out an eyve-glass, polishing it, and reading the - 


paper with difficulty, long after he has seen what 
is written on.it. What is written on it in wet 
ink, is: 

‘Young Blight.” 

‘“¢Waiting ?”? says Eugene over his shoulder, 
in’ confidence, with the Analytical. 

“ Waiting,”’ returns the Analytical, in re- 
sponsive confidence, 


It is too insolvent a state 


————————————— hl ee 


7 
r 
4 
i 


Eugene looks ‘‘ Excuse me” toward Mrs. Ve- 
Neering, goes out, and finds Young Blight, Mor- 
timer’s clerk, at the hall door. 

**You told me to bring him, Sir, to wherever 
you was, if he come while you was out and I was 
in,” says that discreet young gentleman, stand- 
ing on tip-toe to whisper; ‘‘and I’ve brought 
him.” ; 

‘Sharp boy. Where is he?” asks Eugene. 

‘*He’s in a cab, Sir, at the door. I thought 
it best not to show him, you see, if it could be 
helped; for he’s a shaking all over, like—” 
Blight’s simile is perhaps inspired by the sur- 
rounding dishes of sweets—‘‘ like Glue Monge.” 

‘Sharp boy again,” returns Eugene. ‘‘I’ll 
go to him.” 

Goes out.straightway, and, leisurely leaning 
his arms on the open window of a cab in wait- 
ing, looks in at Mr. Dolls, who has brought his 
own atmosphere with him, and would seem from 
its odor to have brought it, for convenience of 
earriage, in a rum-cask. 

‘* Now, Dolls, wake up!” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


273 


*‘Mist Wrayburn? Drection! Fifteen shil- 
lings !” 

After carefully reading the dingy scrap of pa- 
per handed to him, and as carefully tucking it 
into his waistcoat pocket, Eugene tells out the 
money: beginning incautiously by telling the 
first shilling into Mr. Dolls’s hand, which in- 
stantly jerks it out of window; and ending by 
telling the fifteen shillings on the seat. 

“Give him a ride back to Charing Cross, 
sharp boy, and there get rid of him.” 

Returning to the dining-room, and pausing 
for an instant behind the screen at the door, 
Eugene overhears, above the hum and clatter, 
the fair Tippins saying: ‘‘I am dying to ask 
him what he was called out for!” 

‘* Are you?” mutters Eugene, ‘then perhaps 
if you can’t ask him you'll die. So I'll be a ben- 
efactor to society, and go. . Astroll and a cigar, 
and I can think this over. Think this over.” 
Thus, with a thoughtful face, he finds his hat 
and cloak, unseen of the Analytical, and goes 
his way. 


274 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. _ vi ce 


Se alla a 


BOOK IV.—A TURNING | 14 


CHAPTER I. piece of paper, and, as he did so, knew his 
; man. y 
‘‘Ay, ay? It’s you, is it, honest friend?” | 
PrasHwaTer Weir-Mill Lock looked tran- | said Eugene, seating himself preparatory to re- 
quil and pretty on an evening in the summer | suming his sculs. ‘‘ You got the place, then ?” 
time. A soft air stirred the leaves of the fresh ‘“‘T got the place, and no thanks to you for it, , 
green trees, and passed like a smooth shad-| nor yet none to Lawyer Lightwood,” grufily an- | 
ow over the river, and like a smoother shadow | swered Riderhood. 
over the yielding grass. The voice of the falling ‘We saved our recommendation, honest fel- 
water, like the voices of the sea and the wind, | low,” said Eugene, ‘‘for the next candidate— 4 
were as an outer memory to a contemplative | the one who will offer himself when you are : 


SETTING TRAPS. 


listener; but not particularly so to Mr. Rider- | transported or hanged. Don’t be long about it; 
hood, who sat on one of the blunt woodén levers | will you be so good ?” 
of his lock-gates, dozing. Wine must be got} So imperturbable was the air with which he 
into a butt by some agency before it can be drawn | gravely bent to his work that Riderhood re- ; 
out; and the wine of sentiment never having | mained staring at him, without having found a 
been got into Mr. Riderhood by any agency, | retort, until he had rowed past a line of wooden 
nothing in natur@ tapped him. objects by the weir, which showed like huge tee- ' 
As the Rogue sat, ever and again nodding | totums standing at rest in the water, and was al- j 
himself off his balance, his recovery was always | most hidden by the drooping boughs on the left 
attended by an angry stare and growl, as if, in| bank, as he rowed away, keeping out of the op- ; 
the absence of any one else, he had aggressive | posing current. It being then too late to retort 
inclinations toward himself. In one of these | with any effect—if that could ever have been 
starts the ery of ‘‘ Lock ho! Lock!” prevented | done—the honest man confined. himself to curs- 
his relapse into a doze. Shaking himself as he | ing and growling in a grim under-tone. Hav- 
got up, like the surly brute he was, he gave his | ing then got his gates shut, he crossed back by 
growl a responsive twist at the end, and turned | his plank lock-bridge to the towing-path side of * 
his face down-stream to see who hailed. the river. 
Tt was an amateur sculler, well up to his work If, in so doing, he took another glance at the 
though taking it easily, in so light a boat that | bargeman, he did it by stealth. He cast him- 
the Rogue remarked; “A little less on you, and | self on the grass by the Lock side, in an indolent 
you'd a’most ha’ been a Wagerbut;” then went | way, with his back in that direction, and, having 
to work at his windlass handles and sluices, to | gathered a few blades, fell to chewing them, 
let the sculler in. As the latter stood in his| The dip of Eugene Wrayburn’s sculls had be- 
boat, holding on by the boat-hook to the wood- | come hardly audible in his ears when the barge- 
work at the lock side, waiting for the gates to | man passed him, putting the utmost width that 
open, Rogue Riderhood recognized his ‘‘'T’other | he could between them, and keeping under the 
governor,” Mr. Eugene Wrayburn; who was, | hedge. Then Riderhood sat up and took a long 
however, too indifferent or too much engaged to | look at his figure, and then cried: ‘‘ Hi—i—i! 
recognize him, Lock ho! Lock! Plashwater Weir-Mill Lock!” 
The creaking lock-gates opened slowly, andthe | The bargeman stopped, and looked back. 
light boat passed in as soon as there was room ‘¢ Plashwater Weir - Mill Lock, T’otherest 
enough, and the creaking lock-gates closed upon | gov—er—nor—or—or—or!” cried Mr. Rider- 
it, and it floated low down in the dock between | hood, with his hands to his mouth. 
the two sets of gates, until the water should rise| The bargeman turned back. Approaching 
and the second gates should open and let it out. | nearer and nearer, the bargeman became Brad- 
When Riderhood had run to his second windlass | ley Headstone, in rough water-side second-hand 
and turned it, and while he leaned against the | clothing. : 
lever of that gate to help it to swing open pres- ‘Wish I may die,” said Riderhood, smiting 
ently, he noticed, lying to rest under the green | his right leg, and laughing, as he sat on the © 
hedge by the towing path astern of the Lock, a| grass, “if you ain’t ha’ been a imitating me, 


. 
: 
; 


Bargeman. T’otherest governor! Never thought myself so 
The water rose and rose as the sluice poured | good-looking afore |” s) 
in, dispersing the scum which had formed be-| Truly, Bradley Headstone had taken careful 


hind the lumbering gates, and sending the boat | note of the honest man’s dress in the course of i 
up, so that the sculler gradually rose like an ap- | that night-walk they had had together. He q 
parition against the light from the bargeman’s | must have committed it to memory, and slowly ‘ 
point of view. Riderhood observed that the | got it by heart. It was exactly reproduced in 
bargeman rose too, leaning on his arm, and/the dress he now wore. And whereas, in his 
seemed to have his eyes fastened on the rising | own schoolmaster clothes, he usually looked as 
figure. {if they were the clothes of some other man, he © 

But there was the toll to be taken, as the | now looked, in the clothes of some other man or 
gates were now complaining and opening. The | men, as if they were his own. f 
T’other governor tossed it ashore, twisted in a| ‘* This your Lock?” said Bradley, whose sur- 


> 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


prise had a genuine air; ‘they told me, where 
I last inquired, it was the third I should come to. 
This is only the second.” 

“It’s my belief, governor,” returned Rider- 
hood, with a wink and shake of his head, ‘that 
you've dropped one in your counting. It ain’t 
abs as you've been giving your mind to. No, 
no! 

As he expressively jerked his pointing finger 
in the direction the boat had taken, a flush of 
impatience mounted into Bradley’s face, and he 
looked anxiously up.the river. 

‘It ain’t Locks as you've been a reckoning 
up,” said Riderhood, when the schoolmaster’s 
eyes came back again. ‘+No, no!” 

“What other calculations do you. suppose I 
have been occupied with? Mathematics ?” 

*“‘T never heerd it called that. It’s a long 
word for it. 
said Riderhood, stubbornly chewing his grass. 

eit, “What?” 

** Tl say them, instead of it, if you like,” was 
the coolly growled reply. ‘It’s safer talk too.” 

** What do you mean that I should understand 
by them ?” 

‘* Spites, affronts, offenses giv’ and took, dead- 
ly aggrawations, such like,” answered Rider- 
hood. 

Do what Bradley Headstone would, he could 
not keep that former flush of impatience out of 
his face, or so master his eyes as to prevent their 
again looking anxiously up the river. 


““Ha ha! Don’t be afcerd, 'T’otherest,” said 
Riderhood. ‘The T’other’s got to make way 


agin the stream, and he takes it easy. You can 
soon come up with him. But wot's the good of 
saying that to you! You know how fur you 


could have outwalked him betwixt any wheres | 


‘about where he lost the tide—say Richmond— 
and this, if you had had a mind to it.” 


‘You think I have been following him 2” said | 


Bradley. 

**] KNow you have.” said Riderhood. 

‘* Well! I have, I have,” Bradley admitted. 
** But,” with another anxious look up the river, 
“he may land.” ; 

**Hasy you! He won’t be lost if he does 
land,” said Riderhood. ‘‘He must leave his 
boat behind him. He can’t make a bundleor a 


Hows’ever, p’raps you call it so,” | 


parcel on it, and carry it ashore with him under 


his arm.” 


275 


sullen ferocity, ‘‘of hoping as I was getting ready 


to be hanged.” 

_‘‘ Let him look to that,” cried Bradley. “Tet 
him look to that!. It will be bad for him when 
men he has injured, and at whom he has jeered 
are thinking of getting hanged. Let him get 
ready for his fate when that comes about. 
There was more meaning in what he said than 
he knew of, or he wouldn’t have had brains 
enough to say it. Let him look to it; let bim 
look to it!’ When men he has wronged, and on 
whom he has bestowed his insolence, are getting 
ready to be hanged, there is a death-bell ringing. 
And not for them.” 

Riderhood, looking fixedly at him, gradral- 
ly arose from his recumbent posture while the 
schoolmaster said these words with the utmost 
concentration of rage and hatred. So, when 
the words were all spoken, he too kneeled on 
one knee on the grass, and the two men looked 
at one another, 

“Oh!” said Riderhood, very deliberately 
spitting out the grass he had been chewing, 
‘Then, I make out, T’otherest, as he is a-going 
to her ?” 

‘* He left London,” answered Bradley, ** yes- 
terday. I have hardly a doubt, this time, that 
at last he is going to her.” 

** You ain’t sure, then?” 

‘*T am as sure here,” said Bradley, with a 
clutch at the breast of his coarse shirt, ‘‘as if it 


was written there ;” with a blow or a stab at the 
sky. 
‘‘Ah! But judging from the looks on you,” 


retorted Riderhood, completely ridding himself 
of his grass, and drawing his sleeve across his 
mouth, ‘‘vou’ve made ekally sure afore, and 
have got disapinted. It has told upon you.” 

‘* Listen,” said Bradley, in a low voice, bend- 
ing forward to lay his hand upon the Lock-keep- 
er’s shoulder. ‘These are my holidays.” 

‘*¢ Are they, by George!” muttered Riderhood, 
with his eyes on the passion-wasted face. ‘* Your 
working days must be stiff ‘uns if these is your 
holidays.” 

« And I have never left him,” pursued Brad- 


ley, waving the interruption aside with an im- 


patient hand, ‘since they began. And I never 

will leave him now ‘till I have seen him with 

her.” ; . 
‘“‘And when you have seen him with her? 


**He was speaking to you just now,” said | said Riderhood. 


Bradley, kneeling on one knee on the grass be- 
side the Lock-kecper. ‘* What did he say ?” 

*« Cheek,”’ said Riderhood. 

Se What?” 

**Cheek,” repeated Riderhood, with an angry 
oath; ‘‘cheek is what he said. 
_ nothing but cheek. I’d ha’ liked to plump down 
aboard of him, neck and crop, with a heavy jump, 
and sunk him.” 

Bradley turned away his haggard face for a 
fw moments, and then said, tearing up a tuft 
of grass: , 

*¢ Damn him!” 

‘*Hooroar!” cried Riderhood. ‘Does you 
credit! Hooroar! I ery chorus to the T’oth- 
erest.” 

‘¢What turn,” said Bradley, with an effort at 
_ self-repression that forced him to wipe his face, 
‘“did his insolence take to-day ?” 


He can’t say | 


“Tt took the turn,” answered Riderhood, with - 


*¢__T’l] come hack to you.” 

Riderhood stiffened the knee on which he had 
been resting, got up, and looked gloomily at his 
new friend. After a few moments they walked 
side by side in the direction the boat had taken, 
as if by tacit consent; Bradley pressing forward, 
and Riderhood holding back; Bradley getting 
out his neat prim purse into his hand (a present 
made him by penny subscription among his 
pupils); and Riderhood, unfolding his arms to 
smear his coat-cuff across his mouth with a 
thoughtful air. 

‘‘T have a pound for you,” said Bradley. 

* You’ve two,” said Riderhood. 

Bradley held a sovereign between his fingers. 
Slouching at his side with his eyes upon the 
towing-path, Riderhood held his left hand open, 
with a certain slight drawing action toward him- 
self. Bradley dipped in his purse for another 
sovereign, and two chinked in Riderhood’s hand, 


276 


ening, drew them home to his pocket. 
‘¢Now, I must follow him,” said Bradley 
Pegdatons, 


fool!—to confuse observation, or divert atten-! of a long doze. 
ut he must | barge through and was alone again, looking to 


tion, if not solely to baffle me. 
have the power of making himself invisible be- 
fore he can shake Me off.” 

Riderhood stopped. ‘‘If you don’t get disa- 
pinted agin, T’otherest, maybe you'll put up at 
the Lock-house when you come back ?” 

¢T will.” 

Riderhood nodded, and the figure of the barge- 
man went its way along the soft turf by the side 
of the towing-path, keeping near the hedge and 
moving quickly. They had turned a point from 
which a long stretch of river was visible. A 
stranger to the scene might have been certain 
that here and there along the line of hedge a 


figure stood, watching the bargeman, and wait- | 
So he himself had | 


ing for him to come up. 
often believed at first, until his eyes became used 
to the posts, bearing the dagger that slew Wat 
Tyler, in the City of London shield. 

Within Mr. Riderhood’s knowledge all dag- 
gers were as one. Even to Bradley Headstone, 


who could have told to the letter without book | 
all about Wat Tyler, Lord Mayor Walworth, and | 


the King, that it is dutiful for youth to know, 


there was but one subject living in the world | 


for every sharp destructive instrument that sum- 
mer evening. So, Riderhood looking after him 
as he went, and he with his furtive hand laid 
upon the dagger as he passed it, and his eyes 
upon the boat, were much upon a par. 

The boat went on, under the arching trees, 
and over their tranquil shadows in the water. 
The bargeman skulking on the opposite bank 
of the stream, went on after it. Sparkles of 
light showed Riderhood when and where the 
rower dipped his blades, until, even as he stood 
idly watching, the sun went down and the land- 
scape was dyed red. And then the red had the 
appearance of fading out of it and mounting up 
to Heaven, as we say that blood, guiltily shed, does. 

Turning back toward his Lock (he had not 


gone out of view of it), the Rogue pondered as | 


deeply as it was within the contracted power of 
such a fellow to do. ‘*Why did he copy my 
clothes? He could have looked like what he 
wanted to look like without that.” This was 
the subject-matter in his thoughts; in which, 
too, there came lumbering up, by times, like any 
half floating and half sinking rubbish in the riv- 
er, the question, Was it done by accident? The 
setting of a trap for finding out whether it was 
accidentally done, soon superseded, as a practi- 
eal piece of cunning, the abstruser inquiry why 
otherwise it was done. And he devised a means. 

Rogue Riderhood went into his Lock-house, 
and brought forth, into the now sober gray light, 
his chest of clothes. Sitting on the grass beside 
it, he turned out, one by one, the articles it con- 
tained, until he came to a conspicuous bright 
red neckerchief stained black here and there by 
wear. It arrested his attention, and he sat paus- 
ing over it, until he took off the rusty colorless 
wisp that he wore round his throat, and substi- 
tuted the red neckerchief, leaving the long ends 
flowing. ‘‘ Now,” said the Rogue, “if arter he 
sees me in this neckhankecher, I sce him in a 
sim’lar neckhankecher, it won't be accident !”’ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


the drawing action of which, promptly strength- Elated by his device, he carried his chest in again - 


and went to supper. 


‘Lock ho! Lock!” It was’a light night,. 


“He takes this river-road—the | and a barge coming down summoned him out 


_In due course he had let the 


the closing of his gates, when Bradley Head- 
stone appeared before him, standing on the brink 
of the Lock. 

‘¢ Halloa!” said Riderhood. 
T’otherest ?” 

‘¢ He has put up for the night, at an Angler’s 
Inn,” was the fatigued and hoarse reply. ** He 
goes on, up the river, at six in the morning. I 
have come back for a couple of hours’ rest.” 

‘You want ’em,” said Riderhood, making 
toward the school master by his plank bridge. 

‘¢T don’t want them,” returned Bradley, irri- 
tably, “‘ because I would rather not have them, 
but would much prefer to follow him all night. 
However, if he won’t lead I can’t follow. I 
have been waiting about, until I could discover, 
for a certainty, at what time he starts; if I 


‘‘ Back a’ready, 


staid there.—This would be a bad pit for a man 
to be flung into with his hands tied. These 
slippery smooth walls would give him no chance. 


down ?” 

“Suck him down, or swaller him up, he 
wouldn’t get out,”’ said Riderhood. ‘‘ Not even 
if his hands warn’t tied, he wouldn’t. Shut him 
in at both ends, and I’d give him a pint o’ old 
ale ever to come up-to me standing here.” 

Bradley looked down with a ghastly relish. 
‘You run about the brink, and run across it, in 
this uncertain light, on a few inches width of 
rotten wood,” said he. ‘‘I wonder you have 


| be drowned, 


no thought of being drowned.” 

“*T can’t be!” said Riderhood. 

‘You can’t be drowned ?” 

‘No!’ said Riderhood, shaking his head with 
an air of thorough conviction, ‘‘it’s well known. 
I’ve been brought out o’ drowning, and I can’t 
I wouldn’t have that there busted 
B’lowbridger aware on it, or her people might 
make it tell agin’ the damages I mean to get. 
But it’s well known to water-side characters like 
myself,.that him as has been brought out o’ 
drowning, can never be drowned.” 

Bradley smiled sourly at the ignorance he 
would have corrected in one of his pupils, and 
continued to look down into the water, as if the 
place had a gloomy fascination for him. 

‘¢ You seem to like it,” said Riderhood. 

He took no notice, but stood looking down, 
as if he had not heard the words. There was a 


that the Rogue found it hard to understand. It 
was fierce, and full of purpose; but the purpose 
might have been as much against himself as 
_against another. If he had stepped back for a 
spring, taken a leap, and thrown himself in, it 
would have been no surprising sequel to the 
look. ‘Perhaps his troubled soul, set upon some 


violence and another. 


: his elbow before he answered. i 


couldn’t have made sure of it, I should have 


And I suppose those gates would suck him 


very dark expression on his face; an expression — 


violence, did hover for the moment between that — F 


“‘Didn’t you say,” asked Riderhood, after 
watching him for a while with a sidelong glance, : 
‘*as you had come back for a couple 0’ hours’ | 
rest?” But even then he had to jog him nw . 


_but no return of Bradley. 
sultry and oppressive. 


for three days. 
Then I saw him wait for her and meet her. 
~ gaw them’—he stopped as though he were suffo- 


_.. “Nothing.” 


mickk : Fr b Pp Vee 3h Woke oe ee ng 
Lf, ’ ’ ay a es ta fl mie 
“ab May 5 i ait ree 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


feEh? Yes.” 

‘¢Hadn’t you better come in and take your 
couple ©’ hours’ rest ?” 

‘¢Thank you. Yes.” 


With the look of one just awakened he fol-_ 


lowed Riderhood into the Lock-house, where the 
Jatter produced from a cupboard some cold salt- 


beef and half a loaf, some gin in a bottle, and. 


some water in a jug. The last he brought in, 
cocl and dripping, from the river. 


277 


‘* How does that happen?” asked Riderhood. 
‘“T don’t know. I can’t keep it back. It has 
happened twice—three times— four times—I 
don’t know how many times—since last night. 
I taste it, smell it, see it; it chokes me, and 


then it breaks out like this.” 


‘¢There, ‘I’otherest,”’ said Riderhood, stoop- : 


ing over him to put it off the table. “ You'd 
better take a bite and a sup afore you takes your 
snooze.” The draggling ends of the red neck- 
erchief caught the schoolmaster’s eyes. Rider- 
heod saw him look at it. 

“Oh!” thought that worthy. ‘*You’re a- 
taking notices, are you? Come! You shall 
have a good squint at it then.” With which re- 
flection he sat down on the other side of the ta- 
ble, threw open his vest, and made a pretense of 
retying the neckerchief with much deliberation. 

Bradley ate and drank. As he sat at his 
platter and mug Riderhood saw him, again and 
yet again, steal a look at the neckerchief, as if 
he were correcting his slow observation and 
prompting his sluggish memory. ‘‘ When you're 
ready for your snooze,” said that honest creat- 
ure, ‘chuck yourself on my bed in the corner, 
T’otherest. It’ll be broad day afore three. I'll 
call you early.” 

‘] shall require no calling,” answered Brad- 
lev. And soon afterward, divesting himself 
only of his shoes and coat, lay down. 

Riderhood, leaning back in his wooden arm- 
chair, with his arms folded on his breast, looked 


at him as he lay with his right hand clefiched in | 


his slecp and his teeth set, until a film came 
over his own sight and he slept too. He awoke 


to find that it was daylight, aid that his visitor 


was already astir, and going out to the river-side 
to cool his head: *““Though I’m blest,” muttered 
Riderhood at the Lock-house door, looking after 


him, ‘‘if I think there’s water enough in all the | 


19? 


Thames to do that for you!”” Within five min- 
utes he had taken his departure, and was pass- 


ing on into the calm distance as he had passed | 


yesterday. Riderhood knew when a fish leaped 


by his starting and glancing round. 
“Lock ho! Lock!” at intervals all day,.and | 
| what you’re up to.” 


‘¢Lock ho! Lock!’ thrice in the ensuing night, 
The second day was 


der-storm came up, and had but newly broken 
into a furions sweep of rain when he rushed in 


at the door, like the storm itself. 


“You've seen him with her!” exclaimed 
Riderhood, starting up. 
“*T have.” 
‘¢ Where ?” 


*¢ At his journey’s end. 


cating, and began again—‘‘I saw them walking 
side by side last night.” 
_ **What did you do?” 


‘¢What are you going to do?” 


i: _ He dropped into a chair and langhed. Im- 


bs 


mediately afterward a great spirt of blood burst 


__ from his nose. 


In the afternoon a thun- | 


His boat’s hauled up | 
I heard him give the order. | 
Ty. 

| 


‘drank both in quick. succession. 


and looked through the window at the 


He went into the pelting rain again with his 
head bare, and, bending low over the river, and 
scooping up the water with his two hands, wash- 
ed the blood away. All beyond his figure, as 
Riderhood looked from the door, was a vast 
dark curtain in solemn movement toward one 
quarter of the heavens. He raised his head and 
came back, wet from head to foot; but with the 
lower part of his sleeves, where he had dipped 
into the river, streaming water. 

‘¢ Your face is like a ghost’s,” said Riderhood. 

‘Did you ever see a ghost?” was the sullen 
retort. 

-‘T mean to say you’re quite wore out.” 

‘That may well be. I have had no rest since 
T left here. I don’t remember that I have so 
much as sat down since I left here.” 

‘¢ Tie down now, then,” said Riderhood. 

‘¢T will, if you'll give me something to quench 
my thirst first.” 

The bottle and jug were again produced, and 
he mixed a weak dranght, and another, and 
‘““You asked 
me something,” he said then. 

‘No, I didn’t,” replied Riderhood. 

‘T tell you,” retorted Bradley, turning upon 
him in a wild and desperate ‘manner, ‘you 
asked me something before I went out to wash 


/ my face in the river.” 


‘Oh! Then?” said Riderhood, backing a 
little, ‘I asked you wot you wos a-going to 
do.” 

‘‘¥Tow can a man in this state know?” he 
answered, protesting with both his tremulous 
hands, with an action so vigorously angry that 
he shook the water from his sleeves upon the 
floor as-if he had wrung them. ‘‘How can I 
plan any thing if I haven't sleep ?” 

“Why, that’s what I as good as said,” re- 
turned the other. ‘‘Didn’t I say lie down?” 

‘© Well, perhaps you did.” 


‘¢Well! Anyways I says it again. Sleep 
where vou slept last, the sounder and longer 
arterward 


you can sleep, the better you'll know 


Ilis pointing to the truckle-bed in the corner 
seemed gradually to bring that poor couch to 
Bradlev’s wandering remembrance. He slipped 
off his worn, down-trodden shoes, and cast hime 
self heavily, all wet as he was, uj on the bed. 

Riderhood sat down in his wooden arm-chair, 
lightning 
and listened to the thunder. But his thoughts 
were far from being absorbed by the thunder and 
the lightning, for again and again and again he 
looked very curiously at the exhausted man upon 
the bed. The man had turned up the collar of the 
rough coat he wore to shelter himself from the 
storm, and had buttoned it about his neck. Une 
conscious of that, and of most things, he had left 
the coat so, both when he had layed his face in 
the river and when he had cast himself upon 
the bed; though it would have been much easier 
to him if he had unloosened it. 

The thunder rolled heavily, and the forked 
lightning seemed to make jagged rents in every 


278 


\\ Wilt iy 
\) ) 

‘ Y nN NY 
NY 


AN 
AN \ i 


\ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. > 


eh Bie al Bt a 
eu ve > ‘i 


IN THE LOCK-KEEPER’S HOUSE. 


part of the vast curtain without, as Riderhood 
sat by the window glancing at the bed. Some- 
times he saw the man upon the bed by a red 
light; sometimes by a blue; sometimes he 
scarcely saw him in the darkness of the storm; 
sometimes he saw nothing of him in the blind- 
ing glare of palpitating white fire. Anon, the 
rain would come again with a tremendous rush, 
and the river would seem to rise to meet it, and 
a blast of wind, bursting upon the door, would 
flutter the hair and dress of the man, as if invis- 
ible messengers were come around the bed to 
carry him away. From all these phases of the 
storm Riderhood would turn, as if they were in- 
terruptions—rather striking interruptions, pos- 
sibly, but interruptions still—of his scrutiny of 
the sleeper, 

‘* He sleeps sound,” he said within himself; 
*“yet he’s that up to me and that noticing of me 
that my getting out of my chair may wake him, 
when a rattling peal won’t, let alone my touch- 
ing of him.” % 


He very cautiously rose to his feet.‘ T’oth- 


erest,”’ he said, in a low, calm voice, “are you 
a lying easy? There’s a chill in the air, gov- 
ernor. Shall I put a coat over you 2?” 

No answer. 

‘*That’s about what it is a’ready, you see,” 
muttered Riderhood, in a lower and a different 
voice; ‘‘a coat over you, a coat over you !” 

The sleeper moving an arm, he sat down again 
in his chair, and feigned to watch the storm 
from the window. It was a grand spectacle, but 
not so grand as.to keep his eyes, for half a min- 
ute together, from stealing a look at the man 
upon the bed. 

It was at the concealed throat of the sleeper 
that Riderhood so often looked so curiously, 


until ‘the sleep seemed to deepen into the stupor > 


of the dead-tired in mind and body. Then Rider- 
hood came from the window cautiously, and stood 
by the bed. 


‘*Poor man!” he murmured in a low tone, 


with a crafty face, and a very watchful eye and 
ready foot, lest he should start up; ‘‘this here 


coat of his must make him uneasy in his sleep, _ 


comfortable? Ah! I think I ought to it, poor 
man. I think I will.” 

He touched the first button with a very cau- 
tious hand andastep backward. But the sleep- 
er remaining in profound unconsciousness, he 
touched the other buttons With a more assured 
hand, and perhaps the more lightly on that ac- 
count. Softly and slowly he opened the coat and 
drew it back. . 

The draggling ends of a bright-red neckerchief 
were then disclosed, and he had even been at the 
pains of dipping parts of it in some liquid, to 
give it the appearance of having become stained 
by wear. With a much-perplexed face Rider- 
hood looked from it to the sleeper, and from the 
sleeper to it, and finally crept back to his chair, 
and there, with his hand to his chin, sat long in 
‘a brown study, looking at both. — 


pa a Ns EY 


| CHAPTER II. 
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN RISES A LITTLE. 


Mr. and Mrs. Lammle had come to breakfast 
with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin. They were not ab- 
solutely uninvited, but had pressed themselves 
with so much urgency on the golden couple, that 


_ evasion of the honor and pleasure of their com- 


pany would have been difficult, if desired. 
They were in a charming state of mind, were 
Mr, and’ Mrs, Lammle, and almost as fond of 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin as of one another. 

**My dear Mrs. Boffin,’’ said Mrs. Lammle, 
“it imparts new life to me to see my Alfred 
in confidential communication with Mr. Boffin. 
The two were formed to become intimate. So 
much simplicity combined with so much force 
of character, such natural sagacity united to 
such amiability and gentleness—these are the 


distinguishing characteristics of both.” 


tle, archly. 


This being said aloud gave Mr. Lammle an 
opportunity, as he came with Mr. Boffin from 
the window to the breakfast-table, of taking up 
his dear and honored wife. . 

_ “My Sophronia,” said that gentleman, ‘‘ your 
too partial estimate of your poor husband’s char- 
; ; 

*““No! Not too partial, Alfred,” urged the 
lady, tenderly moved; ‘‘never say that.” 

**My child, your favorable opinion, then, of 
your husband—you don’t object to that phrase, 
darling ?” . 

‘*How can J, Alfred ?” 

~*¢Your favorable opinion then, my Precious, 


- does less than justice to Mr. Boffin, and more 


than justice to me.” 


*“To the first charge, Alfred, I plead guilty. | 


But to the second, oh no, no!” 
** Less than justice to Mr. Boffin, Sophronia,” 


said Mr. Lammle, soaring into a tone of moral 


grandeur, ‘‘ because it represents. Mr. Boffin as 
on a lower level; more than justice to me, So- 
phronia, because it represents me as on Mr. Bof- 
fin’s higher level. Mr. Boffin bears and forbears 
far more than I could.” 

“*Far more than you could for yourself, Al- 
fred hee 

_ ** My love, that is not the question.” 

“Not the question, Lawyer ?” said Mrs. Lam- 


4 


‘ OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


"Shall I loosen it for him, and make him more 


279 


** No, dear Sophronia. 
I regard Mr. Boffin as too generous, as possessed 
of too much clemency, as being too good to per- 
sons who are unworthy of him and ungrateful to 
him. To those noble qualities I can lay no 
claim. On the contrary, they rouse my indig- 
nation when I see them in action.” 

‘Alfred t? 

“They rouse my indignation, my dear, against 
the unworthy persons, and give me a combative 
desire to stand between Mr. Boffin and all sneh 
persons. Why? Because in my lower nature 
[ am more worldly and less delicate. Not being 
so magnanimous as Mr. Boffin, I feel his inju- 
ries more than he does himself, and fecl more 
capable of opposing his injurers.” 

It struck Mrs. Lammle that it appeared rath- 
er difficult this morning to bring Mr. and Mrs, 
Boffin into agreeable conversation. Here had 
been several lures thrown out, and neither of 
them had uttered a word. Here were she, Mrs. 
Lammle, and her husband discoursing at once 
affectingly and effectively, but discoursing alone. 
Assuming that the dear old creatures were im- 
pressed by what they heard, still one would like 
to be sure of it, the more so, as at least one of 
the dear old creatures was somewhat pointedly 
referred to. If the dear old creatures were too 
bashful or too dull to assume their required 
places in the discussion, why then it would seem 
desirable that the dear old creatures should be 
taken by their heads and shoulders and brought 
into it, 

‘‘But is not my husband saying in effect,” 
asked Mrs. Lammle, therefore, with an innocent 
air, of Mr. and Mrs, Boffin, ‘‘that he becomes 
unmindful of his own temporary misfortunes in 
his admiration of another whom he is burning 
to serve? Andis not that making an admission 
that his nature isa generous one? Iam wretch- 
ed in argument, but surely this is so, dear Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin?” 

Still, neither Mr. nor Mrs, Boffin said a word. 
He sat with his eyes on his plate, eating his muf- 
fins and ham, and she sat shyly looking at the 
tea-pot. Mrs. Lammle’s innocent appeal was 
merely thrown into the air, to mingle with the 
steam of the urn. Glancing toward Mr. and 
Mrs. Boffin, she very slightly raised her eye- 
brows, as though inquiring of her husband: 
‘¢Do I notice any thing wrong here?” 

Mr. Lammle, who had found his chest effect- 
ive on a variety of occasions, manceuvred his 


capacious shirt-front into the largest demonstra- 


tion possible, and then smiling retorted on his 
wife, thus: 

‘¢ Sophronia, darling, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin 
will remind you of the old adage, that self-praise 
is no recommendation.” 

‘‘ Self-praise, Alfred? Do you mean because 
we are one and the same?” 

‘No, my dear child. I mean that you can 
not fail to remember, if you reflect for a single 
moment, that what you are pleased to compli- 
ment me upon feeling in the case of Mr. Boffin 
you have yourself confided to me as your own 
feeling in the case of Mrs. Boffin. * 

(‘‘I shall be beaten by this Lawyer, Mrs. 
Lammle gayly whispered to Mrs. Boffin. I 
am afraid I must admit it, if he presses me, for 
it’s damagingly true.”) 


Several white dints began to come and go 


From my lower level © 


a 


280 


about Mr. Lammle’s nose, as he observed that 
Mrs. Boffin merely looked up from the tea-pot 
for a moment with an embarrassed smile, which 
was no smile, and then looked down again. 

“‘Do vou admit the charge, Sophronia?” in- 
quired Alfred, in a rallying tone. — 

‘‘ Really, I think,” said Mrs. Lammle, still 
gayly, ‘‘I must throw ‘myself on the protection 
of the Court. Am I bound to answer that ques- 
tion, my Lord?” ‘To Mr. Boffin. 

* You needn’t, if you don’t like, ma’am,” was 
his answer. ‘It’s not of the least consequence.” 

Both husband and wife glanced at him, very 
doubtfully. His manner was grave, but not 
coarse, and derived some dignity from a certain 
repressed dislike of the tone of the conversation. 

Again Mrs. Lammle raised her eyebrows for 
instruction from her husband. He replied in a 
slight nod. ‘Try ’em again.” 

‘¢To protect myself against the suspicion of 
covert self-laudation, my dear Mrs. Boffin,” said 
the airy Mrs. Lammle therefore, ‘‘1 must tell 
you how it was.” 

‘*No. Pray don’t,” Mr. Boffin interposed. 

Mrs. Lammle turned to him laughingly. ‘The 
Court objects ?” 

‘¢Ma’am,” said Mr. Boffin, “the Court (if I 
am the Court) does object. The Court objects 
for two reasons. First, because the Court don’t 
think it fair. Secondly, because the dear oldlady, 
Mrs. Court (if Iam Mr.) gets distressed by it.” 

A very remarkable wavering between two 
bearings — between her propitiatory bearing 
there, and her defiant bearing at Mr. Twem- 
low’s—was observable on the part of Mrs. Lam- 
mle as she said: ‘*What does the Court not 
consider fair?” 

‘‘ Letting you go on,” replied Mr. Boffin, nod- 
ding his head soothingly, as who should say, 
We won’t be harder on vou than we can help; 
we'll make the best of it. ‘‘It’s not above- 
board and it’s not fair. When the old lady is 
uncomfortable, there’s sure to be good reason for 
it. I see she is uncomfortable, and I plainly 
see this is the good reason wherefore. Have you 
breakfasted, ma’am.”’ 

Mrs. Lammle, settling into her defiant man- 
ner, pushed her plate away, looked at her hus- 
band, and laughed; but by no means gayly. 

“‘Have you breakfasted, Sir?” inquired Mr. 
Boffin. 

‘¢Thank you,” replied Alfred, showing all his 
teeth. ‘‘If Mrs. Boffin will oblige me, I'll take 
another cup of tea.” 

He spilled a little of it over the chest which 
ought to have been so.effective, and which had 
done so little; but on the whole drank it with 
something of an air, though the coming and go- 
ing dints got almost as large, the while, as if 
they had been made by pressure of the tea-spoon. 
‘¢A thousand thanks,” he then observed. ‘‘I 
have breakfasted.” 

‘¢ Now, which,” said Mr. Boffin softly, taking 


out a pocket-book, ‘‘ which of you two is Cash- |. 


ier ?” 

“Sophronia, my dear,” remarked her hus- 
band, as he leaned back in his chair, waving his 
right hand toward her, while he hung his left 
hand by the thumb in the arm-hole of his waist- 
coat: ‘it shall be your department.” 

“‘T would rather,” said Mr. Boffin, *‘that it 


was your husband’s, ma’am, because—but never 


* iS: 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. _. 


: 


mind, because. I would rather have to do with — 
him. ~However, what I have to say, I will say 
with as little offense as possible; if I can say 
without any, I shall be heartily glad. You two 
have done me a service, a very great service, in — 
doing what you did (my old lady knows what % 


was), and I have putginto this envelope a bank- 


note for a hundred pound. I consider the serv- 


ice well worth a hundred pound, and I am well 
pleased to pay the money. 


Would you do me 
the favor to take it, and likewise*to accept my 
thanks ?” 

With a haughty action, and without looking 
toward him, Mrs. Lammle held out her left 
hand, and into it Mr. Boffin put the little pack- 
et. When she had conveyed it to her bosom, 
Mr. Lammle had the appearance of feeling re- 
lieved, and breathing more freely, as not hav- 
ing been quite certain that the hundred pounds ~ 
were his until the note had been safely trans- 
ferred out of Mr. Boffin’s keeping into his own 
Sophronia’s. 

‘<It is not impossible,” said Mr. Boffin, ad- 
dressing Alfred, ‘‘that you have had some gen-_ 
eral idea, Sir, of replacing Rokesmith, in course 
of time ?” 2 

‘¢Tt is not,” assented Alfred, with a glitter- 
ing smile and a great deal of nose, ‘‘not im- 
possible.” 

“¢ And perhaps, ma’am,” pursued Mr. Boffin, 
addressing Sophronia, ‘‘ you have been so kind 
as to take up my old lady in your own mind, | 
and to do her the honor of turning the question 
over whether you mightn’t one of these days 
have her in charge, like? Whether you mightn’t™ 
be a sort of Miss Bella Wilfer to her, and some- 
thing more ?” : 

‘‘T should hope,” returned Mrs. Lammle, 
with a scornful look and in a loud voice, ‘‘ that 
if I were any thing to your wife, Sir, I could 
hardly fail to be something more than Miss Bel- 
la Wilfer, as you call her.” a 

‘What do you call her, ma’am ?” asked Mr. 
Boffin. , 

Mrs. Lammle disdained to reply, and sat de-_ 
fiantly beating one foot on the ground. 

‘¢ Again I think I may say, that’s not impos- 
sible. Is it, Sir?” asked Mr. Boffin, turning to 
Alfred. 

‘¢Tt is not,” said Alfred, smiling assent as be- 
fore, ‘‘ not impossible.” 

‘‘Now,” said Mr. Boffin, gently, ‘‘it won’t 
do. I dou’t wish to say a single word that 
might be afterward remembered as unpleasant ; _ 
but it won’t do.” ee 
“© Sophronia, my love,” her husband repeat-_ 


do.”’ + -s 
‘No,” said Mr. Boffin, with his voice still — 
dropped, ‘it really won’t. You positively must 
excuse us. If you'll go your way, we'll go ours, — 
and so I hope this affair ends to the satisfaction 
of all parties.” i 
Mrs. Lammle gave him the look of a decided- 
ly dissatisfied party demanding exemption from 
the category ; but said nothing. 13 
‘¢'The best thing we can make of the affair,” _ 


said Mr. Boffin, ‘‘is a matter of business, and 
as a matter of business it’s brought to a conelu- ~ 


sion. You have done me a great service, a very 

great service, and I have paid for it. Is there — 

any objection to the price ?” ie 
nae” 


ed, in a bantering manner, ‘‘you hear? Itwon't 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. < 


_ Mr. and Mrs. Lammle looked at one another 
across the table, but neither could say that-there 
was. Mr. Lammle shrugged his shoulders, and 
Mrs. Lammle sat rigid. , 
_ “Very good,” said Mr. Boffin. “We hope 
pny old lady and me) that you'll give us credit 
or taking the plainest and honestest short-cut 
that could be taken under the circumstances. 
We have talked it over with a deal of care (my 
old lady and me), and we have felt that at ail 
to lead you on, or even at all to let you go.on 
of your own selves, wouldn’t be the right thing. 
So I have openly given you to understand that—” 
Mr. Boffin sought for a new turn of speech, but 
could find none so expressive as his former one, 
repeated in aconfidential tone, *‘ —that it won’t 
do. IfIcould have put the case more pleasant- 
ly Twould; but I hope I haven’t put it very un- 
pleasantly; at all events I haven’t meant to. 
So,”’ said Mr. Boffin, by way of peroration, 
“wishing you well in the Way you go, we now 
conclude with the observation that perhaps you'll 
go it.” . 

Mr. Lammleyrose with an impudent laugh on 
_his side of the table, and Mrs. Lammle rose with 
a disdainful frown on hers. At this moment a 
. hasty foot was heard on the staircase, and Geor- 
‘giana Podsnag broke into the room, unannounced 
and in tears. : 

‘*Oh, my dear Sophronia!” cried Georgiana, 
wringing: her hands as she ran up to embrace 
her, ‘‘to think that you and Alfred should be ru- 
ined! Qh, my poor dear Sophronia, to think that 
you should have had a Sale at your house after all 
your kindness tome! Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, 
pray forgive me for thisintrusion, but you don’t 
know how fond I was of Sophronia when Pa 
wouldn’t let me go there any more, or what I 
have felt fur Sophronia since I heard from Ma 
of her having been brought low in the world! 
You don’t, you can’t, you never can, think how 
I have Jain awake at night and cried for my 
good Sophronia, my first and only friend !” 

Mrs. Lammle’s manner changed under the 
poor silly girl’s embraces, and she turned ex- 
tremely pale: directing one appealing look, first 
to Mrs. Boffin, and then to Mr. Boffin. Both 
understood her instantly, with a more delicate 
subtlety than much better educated people, whose 
perception came less directly from the heart, 
could have brought to bear upon the case. 

“TI haven’t a minute,” said poor little Georgi- 
ana, *‘to stay.- I'am out shopping early with 
Ma, and I said I had a headache and got Ma to 
leave me outside in the phaeton, in Piccadilly, 
and ran round to Sackville Street, and heard 
that Sophronia was here, and then Ma came to 
see, oh such a dreadful old stony woman from 
the country in a turban in Portland Place, and 
I said I wouldn’t go up with Ma, but would drive 


round and leave cards for the Boffins, which is 


taking a liberty with the name; but oh my| 


goodness I am distracted, and the phaeton’s at 
‘the door, and what would Pa say if he knew it !” 

‘‘Don’t ye be timid, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Boffin. ‘* You came in to see us.” 

“Oh no, I didn’t,” cried Georgiana. ‘It’s 
very impolite, I know, but I came to see my 
poor Sophronia, my only friend. Oh! how I 
felt the separation, my dear Sophronia, before I 


281 


There were actually tears in the bold wo- 
man’s eyes, as the sofi-headed and soft-hearted 
girl twined her arms about her neck. 

‘* But I’ve come on business,” said Georgiana, 
sobbing and drying her face, and then searching 
in a little reticule, ‘and if I don’t dispatch it I 
shall have come for nothing, and oh good gra- 
cious! what would Pa say if he knew of Sack- 
ville Street, and what would Ma say if she was 
kept waiting on the door-steps of that dreadful 
turban, and there never were such pawing horses 
as ours unsettling my mind every moment more 
and more when I want more mind than I have 
got, by pawing up Mr. Boffin’s street where they 
have no business to be. Oh! where is, where is 
it? Oh! I can't find it!” All this time sob- 
bing and searching in the little reticule. 

‘* What do you miss, my dear?” asked Mr. Bof- 
fin, stepping forward. 

‘‘ Oh! it’s little enough,” replied Georgiana, » 
‘‘ because Ma always treats me as if I was in the 
nursery (I am sure I wish I was!), but I hardly 
ever spend it and it has mounted up to fifteen 
pounds, Sophronia, and I hope three five-pound 
notes are better than nothing, though so little, 
so little! And now I have found that—oh, my 
goodness! there’s the other gone next! Oh no, 
it isn’ there it is!” TRON 

With that, always sobbing and searching in 
the reticule, Georgiana produced a necklace. 

‘“‘ Ma says chits and jewels have no business 
together,” pursued Georgiana, ‘and that’s. the 
reason why I have no trinkets except this, but I 
suppose my aunt Hawkinson was of a different 
opinion, because she left me this, though I used 
to think.she might just as well have buried it, 
for it’s always kept in jewelers’ cotton. How- 
ever, here it is, I am thankful to say, and of use 
at last, and you’ll sell it, dear Sophronia, and 
buy things with it.” 

** Give it to me,” said Mr. Boffin, gently tak- 
ing it. ‘‘Tll see that it’s properly disposed 
of... 

‘‘Oh! are you such a friend of Sophronia’s, 
{r. Boffin ?” cried Georgiana. ‘*Oh, how good 
of you! Oh, my gracious! there was something 
Ise, and it’s gone out of my head! Oh no, it 
isn’t, I remember what it was. My grandmam- 
jma’s property, that'll come to me when I am of 
age, Mr. Boffin, will be all my own, and neither 
Pa nor Ma nor any body else will have any con- 
trol over it, and what I wish to do is to make 
some of it over somehow to Sophronia and Al-_ 
fred, by signing something somewhere thav'll © 
prevail on somebody to advance them something. 
I want them to have something handsome to 
bring them up in the world again. Oh, my 
goodness me! Being such a friend of my dear 
Sophronia’s, you won’t refuse me, will you? 
‘¢No, no,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘it shall be seen 
? 

‘¢Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Georgi- 
ana. ‘If my maid had a little note and half a 
crown, I could run round to the pastrycook’s to 
sign something, or I conld sign something in 
the Square if somebody would come and cough 
for me to let ’em in with the key, and would 
bring a pen and ink with ’em and a bit of blcty 
ting-paper. Oh, my gracious! I must tear ae 
self away, or Pa and Ma will both find ont! 


to 


. tg te 
knew you were brought low in the world, and| Dear, dear Sophronia, good, good-by! 


how much more I feel it now!” 


18 
ih: 


fries 


The credulous little ereature again embraced 


282 


| i>... 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Mrs. Lammle most aff :ctionately, and then held | as she sketched, there was a struggle within her, 


out her hand to Mr. Lamnuile. 

‘© Good-by, dear Mr. Lammle —I mean Al- 
fred. You won’t think after to-day that I have 
deserted you and Sophronia because you have 
been brought low in the world, will you? Oh 
me! oh me! I have been crying my eves out 
of my head, and Ma will be sure to ask me 
what’s the matter. Oh, take me down, some- 
body, please, please, please !” 

Mr. Boffin took her down, and saw her driven 
away, with her poor little red eyes and weak 
chin peering oyer the great apron of the custard- 
colored phaeton, as if she had been ordered to 
expiate some childish misdemeanor by going to 
bed in the daylight, and were peeping over the 
counterpane in a miserable flutter of repentance 
and low spirits. Returning to the breakfast- 
room, he found Mrs. Lammle still standing on 
her side of the table, and Mr. Lammle on his. 

‘¢T’]] take care,” said Mr. Boffin, showing the 
money and the necklace, ‘‘ that these are soon 
given back.” 


Mrs. Lammle had taken up her parasol from 


a side-table, and stood sketching with it on the 
pattern of the damask cloth, as she had sketched 
on the pattern of Mr. 'Twemlow’s papered wall. 

‘*You will not undeceive her I hope, Mr. 
Boffin ?” she said, turning her head toward him, 
but not her eves. 

‘*No,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘‘T mean, as to the worth and value of her 
friend,” Mrs. Lammle explained, in a measured 
voice, and with an emphasis on her last word. 

‘SNo,”’ he returned. ‘‘I may try to give a 
hint at her home that she is in want of kind and 
careful protection, but I shall say no more than 
that to her parents, and I shall say nothing to 
the young lady herself.” 

‘¢Mr. and Mrs. Boffin,” said Mrs. Lammle, 
still sketching, and seeming to bestow great pains 
upon it, ** there are not many people, I think, 
who, under the circumstances, would have been 
so considerate and sparing as you have been to 
me just now. Do you care to be thanked ?” 

‘¢Thanks are always worth having,”’ said Mrs. 
Boffin, in her ready good-nature. 

“Then thank you both.” 

‘¢ Sophronia,” asked her husband, mockingly, 
‘are vou sentimental ?” 

‘© Well, well, my good Sir,” Mr. Boffin inter- 
posed, ‘it’s a very good thing to think well of 
another person, and it’s a very good thing to be 
thonght well of 4y another person. Mrs. Lammle 
will be none the worse for it, if she is.” 

‘Much obliged. But I asked Mrs. Lammle 
if she was.” 

She stood sketching on the table-cloth, with 
her face clouded and set, and was silent. 

‘¢ Because,” said Alfred, ‘‘I am disposed to 
be sentimental myself, on your appropriation of 
the jewels and the money, Mr. Boffin. 


you can buy things with the produce.” 
‘« Tf you sell it,” was Mr. Boffin’s comment, 
as he put it in his pocket. 


Alfred followed it with his looks, and also 


As our 
little Georgiana said, three five-pound notes are 
botter than nothing, and if you sell a necklace 


which found expression in the depth of the few 


last lines the parasol point indented into the 
table-cloth, and then some tears fell from her 
eyes. 


‘Why, confound the woman,” exclaimed 
aus b 


}Lammle, ‘¢ she 7s-sentimental !” 


She walked to the window, flinching under 
his angry stare, looked out for a moment, and 
turned round quite coldly. 

‘¢+You have had no former cause of complaint 
on the sentimental score, Alfred, and you will 
have none in future. It is not worth your no- 
ticing. We go abroad soon, with the money we 
have earned here ?” 

‘“You know we do; you know we must.” 

‘¢There is no fear of my taking any sentiment 
with me. I should soon be eased of it if I did. 
But it will be all left behind. It is all left be- 
hind. Are you ready, Alfred ?” 


‘““What the deuce have I been waiting for 


but you, Sophronia ?” 

‘Let us go then. J am sorry I have delayed 
our dignified departure.” ‘ 

She passed out and he followed her. Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin had the curiosity softly to raise 
a window and look after them as they went down, 
the long street. They walked arm in arm, show- 
ily enough, but without appearing to interchange 
a syllable. It might have been fanciful to sup- 
pose that under their outer bearing there was 
something of the shamed air of two cheats who 
were linked together by concealed handcuffs; 
but, not so, to suppose that they were haggard- 
lv weary of one another, of themselves, and of 
all this world. ‘In turning the strect corner they 
might have turned out of this world, for any thing 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin ever saw of them to the con- 
trary; for they set eyes on the Lammles never 
more. 


ae 


a | 


CHAPTER III. 
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN SINKS AGAIN. 


Tue evening of that day being one of the 
reading evenings at the Bower, Mr. Boffin kissed 
Mrs. Boffin after a five o’clock dinner, and trot- 
ted out, nursing his big stick in both arms, so 
that, as of old, it seemed to be whispering in 
his car. He carried so very attentive an ex- 
pression on his countenance that it appeared as 
if the confidential discourse of the big stick re- 
quired to be followed closely. 
was like the face of a thoughtful listener to an 
intricate communication, and, in trotting along, 
he oceasionally glanced at that companion with 
the look of a man who was interposing the re- 
mark: ‘‘ You don’t mean it!” | 

Mr. Boffin and his stick went on alone togeth- 
er until they arrived at certain cross-ways where 
they would be likely to fall in with any one com- 
ing, at about the same time, from Clerkenwell to 
the Bower. Here they stopped, and Mr. Boffin 
consulted his watch. 

‘¢It wants five minutes, good, to Venus’s ap- 
pointment,” said he. ‘* I’m rather early.” 

But Venus was a punctual man, and, even as 


nar arr Nie 


Mr. Boffin’s face — 


greedily pursned the notes until they vanished 
into Mr. Boffin’s waistcoat pocket. Then he 
directed a look, half exasperated and half jeer- 
ing, at his wife. She still stood sketching ; but, 


to be descried coming toward him. He quick-— 


Mr. Boffin replaced his watch in its pocket, was a 


ened his pace on seeing Mr. Boffin already at q 
the place of mectingaan art soon at his side. 


a 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


_ “Thank’ee, Venus,” said Mr. Boffin. “Thank- 
’ee, thank’ee, thank’ee!” 

It would not have been very evident why he 
thanked the anatomist, but for his furnishing 
the explanation in what he went on to say. 

“All right, Venus, all right. Now that 
you’ve been to see me, and have consented to 
‘keep up the appearance before Wegg of re- 
maining in it for a time, I have got a sort of a 
backer. All right, Venus. ‘Thank’ee, Venus. 
Thank’ee, thank’ee, thank’ee !” 

Mr. Venus shook the proffered hand with a 

modest air, and they pursued the direction of 
the Bower. 

“Do you think Wegg is likely to drop down 


upon me to-night, Venus?” inquired Mr. Boffin, . 
Sit, q ’ 


wistfully, as they went along. 
‘*T think he is, Sir.” 
‘‘ Have you any particular reason for thinking 


283 


air was crest-fallen and submissive. Whispered 
Wegg to Venus, as they crossed the yard be- 
hind him: ‘*Look at the worm and minion; 
he’s down in the mouth already.” Whispered 
Venus to Wegg: ‘‘That’s because I’ve told 
him. I’ve prepared the way for you.” 

Mr. Boffin, entering the usual chamber, laid 
his stick upon the settle usually reserved for 
him, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, with 
his shoulders raised and his hat drooping back 
upon them, looked disconsolately at Wegg. 
‘““My friend and partner Mr..Venus gives me 
to understand,” remarked that man of might, 
addressing him, ‘‘that you are aware of our 
power over you. Now, when you have took your 
hat off, we'll go into that pint.” 

Mr. Boffin shook it off with one shake, so that 
it dropped on the floor behind him, and remain- 
ed in his former attitude with his former rueful 


look upon him.* 

‘¢ First of all, ’m a-going to call you Boffin, 
for short,” said Wegg. ‘‘If you don’t like it, 
it’s open to you to lump it.” 

‘¢T don’t mind it, Wegg,” Mr. Boffin replied. 

‘‘'That’s lucky for you, Boffin. Now, do you 
want to be read to?” | 

‘J don’t particularly care about it to-night, 
Wegg.” 

‘¢ Because if you did want to,” pursued Mr. 
Wegg, the brilliancy of whose point was dimmed 
by his having been unexpectedly answered, ‘‘ you 
wouldn’t be. I’ve been your slave long enough. 
I’m not to be trampled underfoot by a dustman 
any more. With the single exception of the 
salary, [ renounce the whole and total sitiwa- 
tion.” 

‘¢ Since you say it is to be so, Wegg,” returned 
Mr. Boffin, with folded hands, ‘‘1 suppose it 
must be.” 

‘* J suppose it must be,” Wegg retorted. 
‘¢Next (to clear the ground before coming to 
business), you’ve placed in this yard a skulking, 
a sneaking, and a sniffing menial.” 

‘¢He hadn’t a cold in his head when I sent 
him here,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘¢ Boffin!” retorted Wegg, ‘I warn you not 
to attempt a.joke with me!” 

Here Mr, Venus interposed, and remarked 
that he conceived Mr. Boffin to have taken the 
description literally; the rather, forasmuch as 
he, Mr. Venus, had himself supposed the menial 
to have contracted an affliction or a habit of the 
nose, invelving a serious drawback on the pleas- 
ures of social intercourse, until he had discoy- 
ered that Mr. Wegg’s description of him was to 
be accepted as merely figurative. 

“Any how, and every how,” said Wegg, “ he 
has been planted here, and he is here. Now, I 
won't have him here. So I call upon Boffin, 
before I say another word, to fetch him in and 
send him packing to the right-about.” 

The unsuspecting Sloppy was at that moment 
airing his many buttons within view of the win- 
dow. Mr. Boffin, after a short interval of im- 
passive discomfiture, opened the window and 
beckoned him to come in. 

‘“‘T call upon Boffin,” said Wegg, with one 
mi arm a-kimbo and his head on one side, like a 
- An unholy glare of contradiction and offense | bullying counsel pausing for an answer from a 
shone in the eyes of Mr. Wegg as he turned witness, ‘‘to inform that menial that I am Mas- 
- the key on his patron, after ushering him into | ter here as 
__ the yard with this vocal quotation. Mr. Boffin’s | In humb 


, so, Venus?” 

‘¢ Well, Sir,” returned that personage, ‘‘ the 
fact is, he has given me another look-in to make 
sure of what he calls our stock-in-trade being 
correct, and he has mentioned his intention that 
he was not to be put off beginning with you the 

“Very next time you should come. And this,” 
hinted Mr. Venus, delicately, ‘‘being the very 
next time, you know, Sir—” 

_—f* Why, therefore you suppose he'll turn to 

at the grindstone, eh, Wegg?” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘¢ Just so, Sir.” ; 

Mr. Boffin took his’ nose in his hand, as if it 
were already excoriated, and the sparks were | 
beginning to fly out of that feature. ‘He's a 
terrible fellow, Venus; he’s an awful fellow. 
I don’t know how ever I shall go through with 
it. You must stand by me, Venus, like a good 
man and true. You'll do all you can to stand 
by me, Venus; won’t you?” 

Mr. Venus replied with the assurance that he 
would; and Mr. Boffin, looking anxious and 
dispirited, pursued the way in silence until they 
rang at the Bower gate. The stumping approach 
of Wegg was soon heard behind it, and as it 

turned upon its hinges he became visible with 
his hand on the lock. 

‘Mr. Boffin, Sir?” he remarked. 
quite a stranger !” 

“‘Yes. I’ve been otherwise occupied, Wegg.” 

‘¢ Have you indeed, Sir?” returned the literary 
gentleman, with a threatening sneer. ‘‘ Hah! 
I’ve been looking for you, Sir, rather what I: 

~ may call specially.” 
' “You don’t say so, Wegg ?” 

‘‘Yes, I do say so, Sir. And if you hadn’t 
come round to me to-night, dash my wig if I 
wouldn't have come round to you to-morrow. 
Now! I tell you!” 

‘‘Nothing wrong, I hope, Wegg?”. 

“Oh no, Mr. Boffin,” was the ironical an- 
swer. ‘‘Nothing wrong! What should be 
wrong in Boffinses Bower! Step in, Sir. 


“6 You're 


*¢¢Tf you'll come to the Bower I've shaded for you, 
Your bed sha'n’t be roses all spangled with doo: 
Will you, will you, will you, will you come to thie 

Bower? 
Oh, won’t you, won't you, won't you, won’t you come 
to the Bower?"” 


le obedience, when the button-gleam- 


284, 


-ing Sloppy entered Mr. Boffin said to him: 
r Sloppy, my fine fellow, Mr. Wegg is Master 
here. He doesn’t want you, and you are to go 
from here.” 

‘For good!” Mr. Wegg severely stipulated. 

**Por ey ” said Mr. Boffin. 

Sloppy stared, with both his eyes and all his 
buttons, and his mouth wide open; but was with- 
out loss of time escorted forth by Silas Wegg, 
pushed out at the yard gate by the shoulders, 
and locked out. 

“The atomspear, ” said Wegg, stumping back 
into the room again, a little reddened by his late 
exertion, ‘‘is now freer for the purposes of res- 
piration. Mr. Venus, Sir, take a chair. Bof- 
fin, you may sit down.” 

Mr. Boffin, still with his hands ruefully stuck 
in his pockets, s sat on the edge of the settle, 
shrunk into a small compass, and eyed the potent 
Silas with conciliatory looks. 

#* This gentleman,” said Silas Wegg, pointing 
out Venus, ‘‘this gentleman, Boffin, is more 
milk and watery with you than I'll be. But he 
hasn’t borne the Roman yoke as I have, nor yet 
he hasn’t been required to pander to your de- 
praved appetite for miserly characters.” 

‘¢T never meant, my dear Wegg—” Mr. Boffin 
was beginning, when Silas stopped him. 

‘«Hold your tongue, Boffin! Answer when 
you're called upon to answer. You'll find you’ve 
got quite enough to do. Now, you’re aware— 
are you—that you're in possession of property to 
which you’ve no right at all? Are you aware 
of that ?” 

‘¢Venus tells me so,” said Mr. Boffin, glan- 
cing toward him for any support he could give. 

‘“‘T tell you so,” returned Silas. ‘* Now, here’s 
my hat, Boffin, and here’s my walking - stick. 
Trifle with me,, and instead of making a ‘bar gain 
with you, I'll put on my hat and take up my 
walking-stick, and go ont and make a bargain 
with the rightful owner.. Now, what do you say ?” 

‘¢T say,” returned Mr. Boffin, leaning forward 
in alarmed appeal, with his hands on his knees, 
“that I am sure I don’t want to trifle, Wegg. 
I have said so to Venus.” 

‘¢ You certainly have, Sir,” said Venus. 

‘¢You’re too milk and watery with our friend, 
you are indeed,” remonstrated Silas, with a dis- 
approving shake of his wooden head. “Then 
at once vou confess vourself desirous to come to 
terms, do you, Boffin? Before you answer, 
keep this hat well in your mind, and also this 
walking-stick.” 

‘¢‘T am willing, Wegg; to come to terms.” 

‘* Willing won’t do, Boffin. I won’t take will- 
ing. Are you desirous to come to terms? Do 
you ask to be allowed as a favor to come to 
terms?” Mr. Wegg again planted his arm, and 
put his head on one side. 

te Ves.” 

“Yes what ?” said the inexorable Wegge: ‘‘I 
won’t take yes. Jl have it out of you in full, 
Boffin.” 

“Dear me!” cried that unfortunate gentle- 
man. ‘‘I amso worrited! I ask to be allowed 
to come to terms, supposing your document is 
all correct.” 

‘‘Don’t you be afraid of that,” said Silas, 
poking his head athim. ‘You shall be satisfied 
by seeing it. Mr. Venus will show it you, and 
Pll hold you the while. Then you want to know 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. | 


what the terms are. Is that about the sum and 
substance of it? Will you or won't you answer, 
Boffin?”’ For he had pansed a moment. 

‘*Dear me!” cried that unfortunate gentleman 
again, ‘‘I am worrited to that degree that ’m 
almost off my head. You hurry me so. Be so 
good as name the terms, Wegg.” 

‘‘Now, mark, Boffin,” returned Silas: “ Mark 
’em well, because they re the lowest terms and 
the only terms. You'll throw your Mound (the 
little Mound as comes to you any way) into the 
general estate, and then you'll divide the whole 
property into three parts, and youll keep one 
and hand over the others.” 

Mr. Venus’s mouth screwed itself up as Mr. 
Boffin’s face lengthened itself; Mr. Venus not 


- oe 


having been prepared for such a rapacious de- | 
mand, j 


‘“Now, wait a bit, Boffin,” Wegg proceeded, 
‘*there’s something more. You’ve been a squan+ 
dering this property—laying some of it out on 
yourself. Jhat won’t do. You've , bought a 
house. You'll be charged for it.” 

‘¢T shall be ruined, Wegg!” Mr. Boffin faint- 
ly protested. 

‘¢Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there’s something 
more. You'll leave me in sole custody of these 
Mounds till they’re all laid low. If any walu- 
ables should be found in ’em, I'll take care of 
such waluables. You'll produce your contract 
for the sale of the Mounds, that we may know 
to a penny what they’re worth, and you’ll make 
out likewise an exact list of all the other prop- 
erty. When the Mounds is cleared away to 
the last shovelful, the final diwision will come 
off. ” 

“Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! I shall die 
in a work-house!” cried the Golden Dustman, 
with his hands to his head. 

‘¢Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there’s something 
more. You've been unlawfully ferreting about 
this yard. You’ve been seen in the act of ferret- 
ing about this yard. Two pair of eyes at the 
present moment brought to bear upon you, have 
seen you dig up a Dutch bottle.” 

‘“It was mine, Wegg,” protested Mr. Boffin. 
*¢T put it there myself.” 

‘¢ What was in it, Boffin?’” inquired Silas. 

‘‘Not gold, not silver, not bank-notes, not 
jewels, nothing that you could turn into money, 
Wegg; upon my soul!” 

‘*Prepared, Mr. Venus,” said Wegg, turning 
to his partner with a knowing and superior air, 
“for an ewasive answer on the part of our dusty 
friend here, I have hit ont a little idea which [ 
think will meet your views. We charge that 
bottle against our dusty friend at a thousand 
pound.” 

Mr. Boffin drew a deep groan. 

“Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there’s something 
more. In your employment is an underhanded 
sneak, named Rokesmith. It won’t answer to 
have Aim about while this business of ours 1s 
about. He must be discharged.” 

‘* Rokesmith is already discharged, ” said Mr. 
Boffin, speaking in a muffled voice, with his 
hands before his face, as he rocked himself on 
the settle. 

‘¢ Already disch Rereal) is he ?” returned Wegg, 
surprised. ‘‘Oh! Then, Boffin, I believe fase ty 
nothing more at present.” 


The unlucky gentleman continuing: to ‘rock 


Oe, 


Sse 


j 
* 
J 
? 
) 
} 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


himself to and fro, and to utter an occasional 
moan, Mr. Venus’ besought him to bear up 
against his reverses, and to take time to accus- 
tom himself to the thought of his new position. 
But his taking time was exactly the thing of all 
others that Silas Wegg could not be induced to 
hear of. ‘‘ Yes or no, and no half measures!” 
was the motto which that obdurate person many 
times repeated; shaking his fist at Mr. Boffin, 
and pegging his motto into the floor with his 
wooden leg, in a threatening and alarming man- 
mer. 

At length Mr. Boffin entreated to be allowed 
a quarter of an hour’s grace, and a cooling walk 
of that duration in the yard. With some diffi- 
culty Mr. Wegg granted this great favor, but 
only on condition that he accompanied Mr. 
Boffin in his walk, as not knowing what he 
might fraudulently unearth if he were left to 
himself. A more absurd sight than Mr. Boffin 
in his mental irritation trotting very nimbly, and 
Mr. Wegg hopping after him with great exertion, 
eager to watch the slightest turn of an eyelash, 
» Jest it should indicate a spot rich with some se- 
cret, assuredly had never been seen in the shad- 
ow of the Mounds. Mr. Wegg was much dis- 
tressed when the quarter of an hour expired, 
and came hopping in, a very bad second. 

“TI can’t help myself!” cried Mr. Boffin, 
flouncing on the settle in a forlorn manner, 
with his hands déep in his pockets, as if his 
pockets had sunk. ‘‘ What’s the good of my 
pretending to stand out, when I can’t help my- 
self? I must give in to the terms. But I 
should like to see the document.” 

‘Wegg, who was all for clenching the nail he 
had so strongly driven home, announced that 
Boffin should see it without an hour’s delay. 
Taking him into custody for that purpose, or 
overshadowing him as if he really were his Evil 
Genius in visible form, Mr. Wegg clapped Mr. 
Boffin’s hat upon the back of his head, and 
walked him out by the arm, asserting a pro- 
prietorship over his soul and body that was at 
once more grim and more ridiculous than any 
thing in Mr. Venus’s rare collection. That 
light-haired gentleman followed close upon their 
heels, at least backing up Mr. Boffin in a literal 
sense, if he had not had recent opportunities of 
doing so spiritually; while Mr. Boffin, trotting 
on as hard as he could trot, involved Silas Wegg¢ 
in frequent collisions with the public, much as.a 
preoccupied blind man’s dog may be seen to 
involve his master. 

Thus they reached Mr. Venus’s establishment, 
somewhat heated by the nature of their progress 
thither. Mr. Wegg, especially, was in a flam- 
ing glow, and stood in the little shop, panting 
and mopping his head with his pocket-handker- 
chief, speechless for several minutes. 

Meanwhile Mr. Venus, who had left the du- 
eling frogs to fight it out in his absence by 
candle-light for the public delectation, put the 
shutters up. When all was snug, and the shop- 
door fastened, he snid to the perspiring Silas: 
‘¢T suppose, Mr. Wegg, we may now produce 
the paper ?” 

‘¢Hold on a minute, Sir,” replied that dis- 
‘ereet character; ‘Shold on a minute, Will yon 
obligingly shove that box—which you mentioned 
on a former oceasion as containing miscellanies 
, —toward me in the midst of the shop here?” 


285 


Mr. Venus did as he was asked. 

- i Very good,” said Silas, looking about; 
‘ve—ry good. Will you hand me that chair, 
Sir, to put a-top of it?” 

Venus handed him the chair. 

‘* Now, Boffin,” said Wegg, “mount up here 
and take your seat, will you?” 

My. Boffin, as if he were about to have his 
portrait painted, or to be electrified, or to be 
made a Freemason, or to be placed at any other 
solitary disadvantage, ascended the rostrum pre- 
pared for him, 

‘**Now, Mr. Venus,” said Silas, taking off his 
coat, ‘when I catches our friend here round the 
arms and body, and pins him tight to the back 
of the chair, you may show him what he wants 
to see. If you'll open it and hold it well up in 
one hand, Sir, and a candle in the other, he can 
read it charming.” 

Mr. Boffin seemed rather inclined to object to 
these precautionary arrangements, but, being im- 
mediately embraced by Wegg, resigned himself. 
Venus then produced the document, and Mr. 
Boffin slowly spelt it out aloud: so very slowly 
that Wegg, who was holding him/in the chair 
with the grip of a wrestler, became again exceed- 
ingly the worse for his exertions. ‘‘ Say when 
you’ve put it safe back, Mr. Venus,” he uttered 
with difficulty, ‘for the strain of this js terri- 
menjious.” 

At length the document was restored to its 
place; and Wegg, whose uncomfortable attitude 
had been that of a very persevering man unsuc- 
cessfully attempting to stand upon his head, took 
a seat to recover himself. Mr. Boffin, for his 
part, made no attempt to come down, but re- 
mained aloft disconsolate. 

‘Well, Boffin,” said Wegg, as soon as he was 
in a condition to speak. ‘‘ Now, you know.” 

‘Yes, Wegg,’’said Mr. Boffin, meekly. ‘‘ Now, 
I know.” 

‘¢ You have no doubts about it, Boffin.” 

‘“‘No, Wegg. No, Wegg. None,” was the 
slow and sad reply. 

‘‘Then, take care, you,” said Wegg, ‘‘ that 
you stick to your conditions. Mr. Venus, if on 
this auspicious occasion you should happen to 
have a drop of any thing not quite so mild as 
tea in the ’ouse, I think I’d take the friendly 
liberty of asking you for a specimen of it.” 

Mr. Venus, reminded of the duties of hospital- 
ity, produced some rum. In answer to the in- 
quiry, ‘‘ Will you mix it, Mr. Wegg ?” that gen- 
tleman pleasantly rejoined, ‘I think not, Sir. 
On so auspicious an occasion I prefer to take it 
in the form of a Gum-Tickler.” 

Mr. Boffin, declining rum, being still elevated 
on his pedestal, was in a convenient position to 
be addressed. Wegg having eyed him with an 
impudent air at leisure, addressed him, there- 
fore, while refreshing himself with his dram. 

‘¢ Bof—fin !” 

‘Yes, Wegg,” he answered, coming out of a 
fit of abstraction, with a sigh. 

‘¢T haven’t mentioned one thing, because it’s 
a detail that comes of course. You must be fol- 
lowed up, you know. You must be kept under 
inspection.” 
a quite understand,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘Pon't you?” sneered Wegg. _‘* Where's 
vour wits, Boffin? ‘ill the Mounds is down 
and this business completed, you're accountable 


» 


286 


for all the property, recollect. Consider your- 

self accountable to me. Mr. Venus here being 

too milk and watery with you, I am the boy for 
ou.” 

‘¢T’ve been a-thinking,” said Mr. Boffin, in a 
tone of despondency, ‘‘that I must keep the 
knowledge from my old lady.” 

‘¢'The knowledge of the diwision, d’ye mean ?” 
inquired Wegg, helping himself to a third Gum- 
Tickler—for he had already taken a second. 

‘“ Yes, If she was to die first of us two she 
might then think all her life, poor thing, that I 
had got the rest of the fortune still, and was sav- 
ing it.” 

‘“‘ I suspect, Boffin,” returned Wegg, shaking 
his head sagaciously, and bestowing a wooden 
wink upon him, ‘‘that you’ve found out some 
account of some old chap, supposed to be a 
Miser, who got himself the credit of having 
much more money than he had. However, f 
don’t mind.” 

‘‘Don’t you see, Wegg ?” Mr. Boffin feelingly 
represented to him: ‘‘don’t you see? My old 
lady has got so used to the property. It would 
be such a hard surprise.” 

‘“*T don’t see it at all,” blustered Wegg. 
“You'll have as much as I shall. And who are 

ou ?” 

‘¢But then, again,” Mr. Boffin gently repre- 
sented; ‘‘my old lady has very upright princi- 
ples.” ‘i : 

‘¢Who’s your old lady,” returned Wegg, *‘to 
set herself up for having uprighter principles 
than mine ?” 

Mr. Boffin seemed a little less patient at this 
point than at any other of the negotiations. But 
he commanded himself, and said tamely enough: 
“T think it must be kept from my old lady, 
Wegg.” 

Well,” said Wegg, contemptuously, though, 
perhaps, perceiving some hint of danger other- 
wise, ‘*keep it from your old lady. J ain’t go- 
ing to tell her. I can have you under close in- 
spection without that. I’m as good a man as 
you, and better. Ask me to dinner. Give me 
the run of your ’ouse. I was good enough for 
you and your old lady once, when I helped you 
out with vour weal and hammers. Was there 
no Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, 
and Uncle Parker, before you two?” 

‘‘Gently, Mr. Wegg, gently,’’ Venus urged. 

‘Milk and water-erily, you mean, Sir,” he 
returned, with some little thickness of speech, in 
consequence of the Gum-Ticklers having tickled 
it. “Wve got him under inspection, and I'll 
inspect him. 

‘*¢ Along the line the signal ran 
England expects as this present man 
Will keep Boffin to his duty.’ 
—Boffin, I'll see you home.” 

Mr. Boffin descended with an air of resigna- 
tion, and gave himself up, after taking friendly 
leave of Mr. Venus. Once more Inspector and 
Inspected went through the streets together, and 
so arrived at Mr. Boffin’s door. 

But even there, when Mr. Boffin had given 
his keeper good-night, and had let himself in 
with his key, and had softly closed the door, 
even there and then, the all-powerful Silas must 
needs claim another assertion of his newly-as- 
serted power. 

-  “ Bof—fin!” he called through the keyhole. 


‘| and escape. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘Yes, Wegg,” was the reply through the same 
channel. 

‘¢Come out. Show yourself again. 
have another look at you!” : 

Mr. Boffin—ah, how fallen from the high 
estate of his honest simplicity!—opened the 
door and obeyed. 

‘““Go in. You may get to bed now,’ 
Wegg, with a@rin. . 

Yhe door was hardly closed when he again 
called through the keyhole: 

‘* Bof—fin !” 

“Yes, Wegg.” Bug 

This time Silas made no reply, but labored 
with a will at turning an imaginary grindstone 
outside the keyhole, while Mr. Boftin stooped at 
it within; he then laughed silently, and stumped 
home. 


Let’s 


> said 


—_—_—_—>—_—_—- 


CHAPTER IV. 
A RUNAWAY MATOH., 


Cuervsic Pa arose with as little noise as pos- 
sible from beside majestic Ma, one morning early, 
having a holiday before him. Pa and the lovely 
woman had a rather particular appointment to 
keep. 

Yet Pa and the lovely woman were not going 
out together. Bella was up before four, but had 
no bonnet on, She was waiting at the foot of 
the stairs—was sitting on the bottom stair, in 
fact—to receive Pa when he came down, but her 
only object seemed to be to get Pa well out of 
the house. 


‘‘Your breakfast is ready, Sir,” 


whispered 


Bella, after greeting him with a hug, ‘‘and all 


you have to do is to eat it up-and-drink it up, 
How do you feel, Pa?” 

‘¢To the best of my judgment, like a house- 
breaker new to the business, my dear, who can’t 
make himself quite comfortable till he is off the 
premises.” 

Bella tucked her arm in his with a merry, 
noiseless laugh, and they went down to the 
kitchen on tip-toe; she stopping on every sep- 
arate stair to put the tip of her forefinger on her 
rosy lips, and then lay it on his lips, according 
to her favorite petting way of kissing Pa. 

‘¢ How do. you feel, my love?” asked R. W., 
as she gave him his breakfast. 

‘¢T feel as if the Fortune-teller was coming 
true, dear Pa, and the fair little man was turn- 
ing out as was predicted.” 

‘‘Ho! Only the fair little man?” said her 
father. 

Bella put another of those finger-seals upon 
his lips, and then said, kneeling down by him as 
he sat at table: ‘‘ Now, look here, Sir. If you 
keep well up to the mark this day, what do you 
think you deserve? What did I promise you 
should have, if you were good, upon a Certain 
occasion ?” 

‘‘Upon my word I don’t remember, Precious. 
Yes, I do, though. Wasn’t it one of those 
beau—tiful tresses?” with his caressing hand 
upon her hair. 

‘¢ Wasn't it, too!” returned Bella, pretending 
to pout. ‘Upon my word! Do you know, Sir, 
that the Fortune-teller would give five thousand 
guineas (if it was quite convenient to him, which 
it isn’t) for the lovely piece I have cut off for 


eh 


er Rn 


§ 


- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


you? You can form no idea, Sir, of the number 
of times he kissed quite a scrubby little piece— 
in comparison—that I cut off for han. 
he wears it, too, round his neck, I can tell you! 
Near his heart!” said Bella, nodding. ‘‘ Ah! 
very near his heart! 
good, good boy, and you are the best of all the 
dearest boys that ever were this morning, and 
here’s the chain I have made of it, ga, and you 
must let me put it round your neck with my own 


loving hands.” 


As Pa bent his head she cried over him a lit- 
tle, and then said (after having stopped to dry 
her eyes on his white waistcoat, the discovery 


‘of which incongruous circumstance made her 


laugh): ‘‘ Now, darling Pa, give me your hands 


that I may fold them together, and do you say | 


after me :—My little Bella.” 
‘¢ My little Bella,” repeated Pa. 
“‘T am very fond of you.” 
“‘T am very fond of you, my darling,” said Pa. 
.“ You mustn’t say any thing not dictated to 
you, Sir. You daren’t do it in your responses 
at Church, and you mustn’t do it in your re- 
sponses out of Church.” 
‘¢T withdraw the darling,” said Pa. 
‘‘That’s a pious boy! Now again:—You 
were always—” 
‘* You were always,” repeated Pa. 
** A vexatious—" 
-**No you weren’t,” said Pa. 
‘¢ A vexatious (do you hear, Sir?), a vexa- 
tious, capricious, thankless, troublesome Ani- 


‘mal; but I hope you'll do better in the time to 


come, and I bless you and forgive you!” Here 
she quite forgot that it was Pa’s turn to make 
the responses, and clung to his neck.. ‘‘ Dear 
Pa, if you knew how much I think this morning 
of what you told me once, about the first time 
of our seeing old Mr. Harmon, when I stamped 
and screamed and beat you with my detestable 
little bonnet! I feel as if I had been stamping 
and screaming and beating you with my hateful 
little bonnet ever since I was born, darling !” 

_ “Nonsense, my love. And as to your bon- 
nets, they have always been nice bonnets, for 
they have always become you—or you have be- 
come them; perhaps it was that—at every age.”’ 

‘¢Did I hurt you much, poor little Pa?” asked 
Bella, laughing (notwithstanding her repent- 
ance), with fantastic pleasure in the picture, 
‘when I beat you with my bonnet ?” 

**No, my child. Wouldn’t have hurt a fly!” 

‘* Ay, but I am afraid I shouldn’t have beat 
you at all unless I had meant to hurt you,” said 
Bella. ‘‘ Did I pinch your legs, Pa?” 

** Not much, my dear; but I think it’s almost 
time [—” 

**Oh, yes!” cried Bella. ‘‘If I go on chat- 
tering, you'll be taken alive. Fly, Pa, fly!” 

So they went softly up the kitchen stairs on 
tip-toe, and Bella with her light hand softly re- 
moved the fastenings of the house-door, and Pa, 
haying received a parting hug, made off. When 
he had gone a little way he looked back. Upon 
which Bella set another of those finger-seals 
upon the air, and thrust out her little foot ex- 
pressive ofthe mark. Pa, in appropriate action, 
expressed fidelity to the mark, and made off as 
fast as he could go. 

Bella walked thoughtfully in the garden for 


‘an hour and more, and then, returning to the 


And | 


However, you have been a. 


287 


-bedroom where Lavvy the Irrepressible still 
slumbered, pnt on a little bonnet of quiet, but 
on the whole of sly appearance, which she had 
yesterday made. ‘‘] am going for a walk, 
Lavvy,” she said, as she stooped down and 
kissed her. The Irrepressible, with a bounce in 
the bed, and a remark that it wasn’t time to get 
up yet, relapsed into unconsciousness, if she had 
come out of it. 

Behold Bella tripping along the. streets, the 
dearest girl afoot under the summer sun! Be- 
hold Pa waiting for Bella behind a pump, at 
least three miles from the parental roof-tree. 
Behold Bella and Pa aboard an early steamboat 
bound for Greenwich. 

Were they expected at Greenwich? Proba- 
bly. At least, Mr. John Rokesmith was on the 
pier looking out, about a couple of hours before 
the coaly (but ‘to him gold-dusty) little steam- 
boat got her steam up in London. Probably. 
At least, Mr. John Rokesmith seemed perfectly 
satisfied when he descried them on board. Prob. | 
ably. At least, Bella no sooner stepped ashore 
than she took Mr. John Rokesmith’s arm, with- 
out evincing surprise, and the two walked away 
together with an ethereal air of happiness which, 
as it were, wafted up from the earth and drew 
after them a gruff and glum old pensioner to see 
it out. Two wooden legs had this gruff and 
glum old pensioner, and, a minute before Bella 
stepped out of the boat, and drew that confiding 
little arm of hers through Rokesmith’s, he had 
had no object in life but tobacco, and not enough 
of that. Stranded was Gruff and Glum in a 
harbor of everlasting mud, when all in an instant 
Bella floated him, and away he went. 

Say, chernbic parent taking the lead, in what 
direction do we steer first? With some such in- 
quiry in his thoughts, Gruff and Glum, stricken 
by so sudden an interest that he perked his neck 
and looked over the intervening people, as if he 
were trying to stand on tip-toe with his two 
wooden legs, took an observation of R. W. 
There was no ‘‘ first” in the case, Gruff and 
Glum made out; the cherubie parent was bear- 
ing down and crowding on direct for Greenwich 
church, to see his relations. 

For Gruff and Glum, though most events 
acted.on him simply as tobacco-stoppers, press- 
ing down and condensing the quids within him, 
might be imagined to trace a family resemblance 
between the cherubs in the church architecture 
and the cherub in the white waistcoat. Some , 
remembrance of old Valentines, wherein a cher- 
ub, less appropriately attired for a proverbially 
uncertain climate, had been seen conducting 
lovers to the altar, might have been fancied to 
inflame the ardor of his timber toes. Be it as it 
might, he gave his moorings the slip, and fol- 
lowed in chase. 

The eherub went before, all beaming smiles ; 
Bella and John RKokesmith followed ; Gruff and 
/Glum stuck to them like wax. For years the 
wings of his mind had gone to look after the 
legs of his body; but Bella had brought them 
back for him per steamer, and they were spread 
again. | 

He was a slow sailer on a wind of happiness, 
but he took a cross-cut for the rendezvous, and 
pegged away as if he were scoring furiously at 
cribbage. When the shadow of the church- 
porch swallowed them up, victorious Gruff and 


288. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Glum likewise presented himself to be swallowed 
up. And by this time the cherubic parent was 
so fearful of surprise that, but for the two wooden 
legs on which Gruff and Glum was reassuringly 
mounted, his conscience might have introduced, 
in the person of that pensioner, his own stately 
lady disguised, arrived at Greenwich in a car 
and griffins, like the spiteful Fairy at the chris- 
tenings of the Princesses, to do something dread- 
ful to the marriage service. And truly he had 
a momentary reason to be pale of face, and to 
whisper to Bella, “ You don’t think that can be 
your Ma; do you, my dear?” on account of a 
mysterious rustling and a stealthy movement 
somewhere in the remote neighborhood of the 
organ, though it was gone directly, and was 
heard no more. Albeit it was heard of after- 
ward, as will afterward be read in this veracious 
register of marriage. 

Who taketh? I, John, and so do I, Bella. 
Who giveth? I, R.W. Forasmuch, Gruff and 
Glum, as John and Bella have consented to- 
gether in holy wedlock, you may (in short) con- 
sider it done, and withdraw your two wooden 
legs from this temple. To the foregoing pur- 
port, the Minister speaking, as directed -by the 
Rubric, to the People, selectly represented in 
the present instance by G. and G. above men- 
tioned. 

And now, the church-porch having swallowed 
up Bella Wilfer for ever and ever, had it not in 
its power to relinquish that voung woman, but 
slid into the happy sunlight, Mrs. John Roke- 
smith instead. And long on the bright steps 
stood Gruff and Glum, looking after the pretty 
bride, with a narcotic consciousness of having 
dreamed a dream. 

After which, Bella took out from her pocket a 
little letter, and re»d it aloud to Pa and John; 
this being a true copy of the same: 

** DEAREST MA,—TI hope you won't be angry, but I am 
most happily married to Mr. John Rokesmith, who loves 
me bett r than I can ever deserve, except by loving hin 
with all my heart. I thought it best not to mention it be- 
forehand, in case it should cause any little difference at 
home. Please tell darling Pa. With love to Lavvy, 

*¢ Ever dearest Ma, 
* Your affectionate daughter, 


** BELLA 
“* (P.S.—Rokesmith).”” 


Then John Rokesmith put the queen’s coun- 
tenance on the letter—when had Her Gracious 
Majesty looked so benign as on that blessed 
morning !—and then Bella popped it into the 
post-office, and said, merrily, ‘‘ Now, dearest Pa, 
you are safe, and will never be taken alive!” 

Pa was, at first, in the stirred depths of his 
conscience, so far from sure of being safe yet, 
that he made out majestic matrons lurking in 
ambush among the harmless trees of Green- 
wich Park, and seemed to sce a stately counte- 
nance tied up in a well-known pocket-handker- 
chief glooming down at him from a window of 
the Observatory, where the Familiars of the As- 
tronomer Royal nightly outwatch the winking 
stars. But the minutes passing on and no Mrs, 
Wilfer in the flesh appearing, he became more 
confident, and so repaired with good heart and 
appetite to Mr. and Mrs. John Rokesmith’s cot- 
tage on Blackheath, where breakfast was ready. 

A modest little cottage but a bright and a 
fresh, and on the snowy table-cloth the prettiest 


of little breakfasts. In waiting, too, like an at-!| we are a partnership of three, dear Pa.” 


| 
| 


2 


tendant summer breeze, a fluttering young dam- — : 
sel, all pink and ribbons, blushing as if she had \ 
been married instead of Bella, and yet assert- — 
ing the triumph of her sex over both John and ; 
Pa in an exulting and exalted flurry: as who — 
should say, ‘‘‘This is what you must all come — 
to, gentlemen, when we choose to bring you to 
book.” ‘This same young damsel was Bella’s 
serving-matl, and unto her did deliver a bunch 
of keys, commanding treasures in the way of 
dry-saltery, groceries, jams and pickles, the in- 
vestigation of which made pastime after brenk- 
fast, when Bella declared that ‘‘ Pa must taste. 
every. thing, John. dear, or_it_swill<never be q 
lucky,” and when Pa_had _all_sorts.ofthings = 
poked into his mouth,-and-didn’t-quite know = 
what to do with them when they were put-there. 

Then they,.all three, out for a charming ride, 
and for a charming stroll among heath in bloom, 
and there behold the identical Gruff and Glum 
with his wooden legs horizontally disposed be- 
fore him, apparently sitting meditating on the 
vicissitudes of life! ‘lo whom said Bella, in 
her light-hearted surprise: ‘‘Oh! . How do you 
do again? What a dear old pensioner you are!” 
To which Gruff and Glum responded that he see 
her married this morning, my Beauty, and that 
if it warn’t a liberty he wished her ji and the 
fairest of fair wind and weather; further, in a 
general wav requesting to know what cheer? 
and scrambling up on his two wooden legs ta 
salute, hat in hand, ship-shape, with the gal- 
lantry of a man-of-warsman and a heart.of oak. 

It was a pleasant sight, in the midst of the 
golden bloom, to see this salt old Gruff and 
Glum waving his shovel hat at Bella, while his 
thin white hair flowed free, as if she had once 
more launched him into blue water again. ‘“¥ena—— 
are a charming old pensioner,” said Bella, ‘‘and — 
T am ‘sov-happy.that.1 svish I could=make you 
happy.too.”-~Answered Gruff and Glum, ‘ Give 
me leave to kiss your hand, my Lovely, and it’s 
done!’’ So it was done to the general content- 
ment; and if Gruff and Glnm didn’t in the 
course of the afternoon splice the main brace, it 
was not for want of the means of inflicting that 
outrage on the feelings of the Infant Bands of 
Hope. 

But the marriage dinner was the crowning 
success, for what had bride and bridegroom 
plotted to do but to have and to hold that din- 
ner in the very room of the very hotel where Pa 
and the lovely woman had once dined together! 
Bella sat between Pa and John, and divided her 
attentions pretty equally, but felt it necessary (in 
the waiter’s absence before dinner) to remind Pa 
that she was his lovely woman no longer. 

‘*T am well aware of it, my dear,” returned 
the cherub, ‘‘and I resign you willingly.” 

‘*Willingly, Sir? You ought to be broken- q 
hearted.” 

‘*So I should be, my dear, if I thought that. 

I was going to lose you.” .: % 

‘* But you know you are not; don’t you, poor 
dear Pa? You know that you have only made 
a new relation who will be as fond of you and _ 
as thankful to you—for my sake and your own 


y 


lip again, and then on her husband’s. ‘Now, 


‘OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


SS " 


SZ 


“HOIMNGAGYID CY AANNIG ONIGGGM FHL 
a Rs — 4 % = 


LIZA ZZ LL 6A ge 
ZAZEZ 


= Gil =. 
Uf} Yj} ) 
The appearance of dinner here cut Bella short 
in one of her disappearances: the more effectu- 
ally, because it was put on under the auspices 
of a solemn gentleman in black clothes and a 


white cravat, who looked much more like a 
clergyman than the clergyman, and seemed to 


_have mounted a great deal higher in the church: 


not to say, scaled the steeple. This dignitary, 


conferring in secrecy with John Rokesmith on 
the subject of punch and wines, bent his head 


as though stooping to the Papistical practice of 
receiving auricular confession. Likewise, on 
John’s offering a suggestion which didn’t meet 
his views, his face became overcast and reproach- 
ful, as enjoining penance. 

What a dinner! Specimens of all the fishes 


’ that swim in the sea surely had swum their way 
to it, and if samples of the fishes of divers col- 


ors that made a speech in the Arabian Nights 


(quite a ministerial explanation in respect of 
cloudiness), and then jumped out of the frying- 


4 


pan, were not to be recognized, it was only be- 


> 


289 


cause they had all become of one hue by being 
cooked in batter among the white-bait. Aud 
the dishes being seasoned with Bliss—an article 
which they are sometimes out of, at Greenwich 
—were of perfect flavor, and the golden drinks 
had been bottled in the golden age and hoard- 
ing up their sparkles ever since. : 

The best of it was, that Bella and John and 
the cherub had made a covenant that they would 
not reveal to mortal eyes any appearance what- 
ever of being a wedding-party. Now, the su- 
pervising dignitary, the Archbishop of Green- 
wich, knew this as well as if he had performed 
the nuptial ceremony, And the loftiness with 
which his Grace entered into their confidence 
without being invited, and insisted on a show, 
of keeping the waiters out of it, was the crown- 
ing glory of the entertainment. 

There was an innocent young waiter of a slen- 
der form and with weakish legs, as yet unversed 
in the wiles of waiterhood, and but too evidently 
of a romantic temperament, and deeply (it were 


290 


not too much to add hopelessfy) in love with some 
young female not awareof his merit. This guile- 
less youth, descrying the position of affairs, which 
even his innocence could not mistake, limited his 
waiting to languishing admiringly against the 
side-board when Bella didn’t want any thing, 
and swooping at her when she did. Him, his 
Grace the Archbishop perpetually obstructed, 

utting him out with his elbow in the moment 
of success, dispatching him in degrading quest 
of melted butter, and, when by any chance he 
got hold of any dish worth having, bereaving 
him of it, and ordering him to stand back. 

‘¢ Pray excuse him, madam,” said the Arch- 
bishop, in a low stately voice; ‘‘he is a very 
young man on liking, and we don’t like him.” 

This induced John Rokesmith to observe—by 
way of making the thing more natural—‘‘ Bella, 

_ my love, this is so much more successful than 
any of our past anniversaries, that I think we 
must keep our future anniversaries here.” 

Whereunto Bella replied, with probably the 
least successful attempt at looking matronly that 
ever was seen: ‘‘ Indeed, I think so, John, dear.” 

Here the Archbishop of Greenwich coughed a 
stately cough to attract the attention of three of 
his ministers present, and staring at them, seem- 
ed to say: ‘‘I call upon you by your fealty to 
believe this!” 

With his own hands he afterward put on the 
dessert, as remarking to the three guests, ‘‘ The 
period has now arrived at which we can dispense 
with the assistance of those fellows who are not 
in our confidence,” and would have retired with 
complete dignity but for a daring action issuing 
from the misguided brain of the young man on 
liking. He finding, by ill-fortune, a piece of 
orange flower somewhere in the lobbies, now ap- 
proached undetected with the same in a finger- 
glass, and placed it on Bella's right hand. The 
Archbishop instantly ejected and excommunica- 
ted him; but the thing was done. 

‘‘T trust, madam,” said his Grace, returning 
alone, ‘‘ that you will have the kindness to over- 
look it, in consideration of its being the act of a 
very young man who is merely here on liking, 
and who will never answer.” 

With that, he solemnly bowed and retired, and 
they all burst into laughter, long and merry. 
‘« Disguise is of no use,” said Bella; ‘‘ they all 
find me out; I think it must be, Pa and John 
dear, because I look so happy !” 

Her husband feeling it necessary at this point 
to demand one of those mysterious disappear- 
ances on Bella’s part, she dutifully obeyed; say- 
ing in a softened voice from her place of con- 
cealment : 

‘¢You remember how we talked about the 
ships that day, Pa?” 

‘*Yes, my dear.” 

‘‘Isn’t it strange, now, to think that there was 
no John in all the ships, Pa?” 

‘¢ Not at all, my dear.” 

‘Oh, Pa! Not at all?” 

‘¢No, my dear. How can we tell what com- 
ing people are aboard the ships that may be sail- 

‘ing to us now from the unknown seas!” 

Bella remaining invisible and silent, her fa- 
ther remained at his dessert and wine, until he 
remembered it was time for him to get home to 
Holloway. ‘Though I positively can not tear 
myself away,” he cherubically added, ‘‘—it 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. a) | 


many happy returns of this most happy day.” 


‘*Hear! ten thousand’ times!” cried John. | 
‘¢T fill my glass and my precious wife's.” a 

“Gentlemen,” said the cherub, inaudibly ad- | 
dressing, in his Anglo-Saxon tendency to throw | 
his feelings into the form~of a speech, the boys _ 
down below, who were bidding against.each oth. _ 
er to put their heads in the mud for sixpence: | 
‘‘Gentlemen—and Bella and John—you will © 
readily suppose that it is not my intention to _ 
trouble you with many observations on the pres- _ 
ent occasion. You will also at once infer the — 
nature and even the terms of the toast I am 
about to propose on the present occasion. Gen-_ 
tlemen—and Bella and John—the present occa- _ 
sion is an occasion fraught with feelings that I 
can not trust myself to express. But geritlemen — 
and Bella and John—for the part I have had | 
in it, for the confidence you have placed in me, _ 
and for the affectionate good-nature and kind- 
ness with which you have determined not to find — 
me in the way, when I am well aware that I can_ 
not be otherwise than in it more or less, I do _ 
most heartily thank you. Gentlemen—and Bele 
la and John—my love to you, and may we mect, 
as on the present occasion, on many future oc-— 
casions; that is to say, gentlemen—and Bella — 
and John—on many happy returns of the pres- 
ent happy oceasion.”” 

Having thus coneluded his address, the amia=_ 
ble cherub embraced his daughter, and took his _ 
flight to the steamboat which was to convey him 
to London, and was then lying at the floazing 
pier, doing its best to bump the same to bits. — 
But the happy couple were not going to part 
with him in that way, and before he had been 
on board two minutes there they were, looking 
down at him from the wharf above. 4 

‘Pa, dear!” cried Bella, beckoning him with — 
her parasol to approach the side, and bending — 
gracefully to whisper. . 

‘‘Yes, my darling.” 

‘‘Did I beat you much with that horrid little _ 
bonnet, Pa?” . 

‘¢ Nothing to speak of, my dear.” 

‘¢Did I pinch your legs, Pa?” 

‘*Only nicely, my pet.’ a 

‘‘You are sure you quite forgive me, Pa? © 
Please, Pa, please, forgive me quite!” Half — 
laughing at him and half crying to him, Fella ~ 
besought him in the prettiest manner; in a~ 
manner so engaging and so playful and so nat-_ 
ural, that her cherubic parent made a coaxing — 
face as if she had never grown up, and said, — 


would be a sin—withont drinking to ne 


“ What a silly little Mouse it is!” ‘ 
‘But you do forgive me that, and every thing — 
else; don’t you, Pa?” ’ 


‘¢Yes, my dearest.” ‘e 
‘« And you don’t feel solitary or neglected, go- 
ing away by yourself; do you, Pa?” : 
‘‘Lord bless you! No, my Life!” BY 
‘“‘Good-by, dearest Pa! Good-by!” i 
‘*Good-by, my darling! Take her away, my — 
dear John. ‘Take her home!” ! 
So, she leaning+on her husband’s arm, they 
turned homeward by a rosy path which the gra-_ 
cious sun struck out for them in its setting. — 
And O there are days in this life worth life an@— 
worth death. And O what a bright old song it 
is, that O ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love, that make 
the world go round! , at 


a 
iy 
het 


a 


CHAPTER V. 
CONCERNING THE MENDICANT’S BRIDE. 


‘Tue impressive gloom with which Mrs. Wil- 
fer received her husband on his return from the 
wedding knocked so hard at the door of the 
‘cherubic conscience, and likewise so impaired 
‘the firmness of the cherubic legs, that the cul- 
prit’s tottering condition of mind and body might 
have aroused suspicion in less occupied persons 
‘than the grimly heroic lady, Miss Lavinia, and 
‘that esteemed friend of the family, Mr. George 
‘Sampson. But the attention of all three being 
‘fully possessed by the main fact of the marriage, 
‘they had happily none to bestow on the guilty 
‘conspirator; to which fortunate circumstance he 
‘owed the escape for which he was in nowise in- 
‘debted to himself. 

“You do not, R. W.,” said Mrs. Wilfer from 
her stately corner, ‘‘inquire for your daughter 
Bella.” . 

“To be sure, my dear,” he returned, with a 
most flagrant assumption of unconsciousness, ‘‘ I 
did omit it. How—or perhaps I should rather 
say where—s Bella?” 

“Not here,” Mrs. Wilfer proclaimed, with 
folded arms. 

The cherub faintly muttered something to the 
abortive effect of ‘‘Oh, indeed, my dear!” 

‘¢ Not here,” repeated Mrs. Wilfer, in a stern 
sonorous voice. “In a word, R. W., you have 
no daughter Bella.” 

‘“‘No daughter Bella, my dear ?” 

“No. Your daughter Bella” said Mrs. Wil- 
fer, with the lofty air of fever having had the 
least copartnership in that young lady: of whom 
she now made reproachful mention as an article 
of luxury which her husband had set up entirely 
on his own account, and in direct opposition to 
her advice: ‘‘—your daughter Bella has be- 
stowed herself upon a Mendicant.”’ 

** Good gracious, my dear !” 

‘¢Show your father his daughter Bella’s let- 
ter, Lavinia,” said Mrs. Wilfer, in her monoto- 
nous Act of Parliament tone, and waving her 
hand. ‘‘I think your father will admit it to be 
documentary proof of what 1 tell him. I believe 
your father is acquainted with his daughter Bel- 
la’s writing. But I do not know. He may tell 
you he is not. Nothing will surprise me.” 

' * Posted at Greenwich, and dated this morn- 
ing,” said the Irrepressible, flouncing at-her fa- 
‘ther in handing him the evidence. ‘‘ Hopes Ma 
-won’t be angry, but is happily married to Mr. 
John Rokesmith, and didn’t mention it before- 
hand to avoid words, and please tell darling you, 
and love to me, and I should. like to know what 
you'd have said if any other unmarried member 
of the family had done it!” 

‘He read the letter, and faintly exclaimed, 
** Dear me!” 

‘* You may well say Dear me!” rejoined Mrs. 
Wilfer, in a deep tone. Upon which encourage- 
ment he said it again, though scarcely with the 
success he had expected; for the scornful lady 
then remarked, with extreme bitterness: ‘‘ You 
said that before.’ 

“It’s very surprising. But I suppose, my 
dear,” hinted the cherub, as he folded the letter 
after a disconcerting silence, ‘‘that we must 
make the best of it? Would you object to my 
pointing out, my dear, that Mr. John Rokesmith 


rd 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


291 


is not (so far asI am acquainted with him), 
strictly speaking, a Mendicant ?” 

‘*Indeed ?” returned Mrs. Wilfer, with an 
awful air of politeness. ‘‘‘Truly so? I was not 
aware that Mr. John Rokesmith was a gentleman 
of landed property. But I am much relieved to 
hear it.” 

‘*T doubt if you have heard it, my dear,” the 
cherub submitted with hesitation. : 

‘Thank you,” said Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘I make 
false statements, it appears? So be it.. If my 
daughter flies in my face, surely my husband 
may. ‘The one thing is not more unnatural than 
the other. ‘There seems a fitness in the arrange- 
ment. By all means!” Assuming, with a 
shiver of resignation, a deadly cheerfulness. | 

But here the Irrepressible skirmished into the 
conflict, dragging the reluctant form of Mr. 
Sampson after her. 

‘¢ Ma,’’ interposed the young lady, ‘‘I must 
say I think it would be much better if you would 
keep to the point, and not hold forth about peo- 
ple’s flying into people’s faces, which is nothing 
more nor less than impossible nonsense.” 

‘¢How!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilfer, knitting her 
dark brows. 

‘‘ Just im-possible nonsense, Ma,” returned 
Lavvy, ‘‘and George Sampson. knows it is, as 
well as I do.” 

Mrs. Wilfer suddenly becoming petrified, fixed 
her indignant eyes upon the wretched George : 
who, divided between the support due from him 
to his love, and the support due from him to his 
love’s mamma, supported nobody, not even him- 
self. 

‘The true point is,” pursued Lavinia, ‘‘ that 
Bella has behaved in a most unsisterly way to 
me, and might have. severely compromised me 
with George and with George’s family, by mak- 
ing off and getting married in this very low and 
disreputable manner—with some pew-opener or 
other, I suppose, for a bridemaid—when she ought 
to have confided in me, and ought to have said, 


-*Tf, Lavvy, you consider it due to your engage- 


ment with George that you should countenance 
the occasion by being present, then, Lavvy, I 
beg you to be present, keeping my secret from 
Ma and Pa.’ As of course I should have done.” 

‘© As of course you would have done? In- 
grate!’ exclaimed Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘ Viper!” 

‘‘Tsay! You know, ma’am. Upon my honor 
you mustn’t,’”’ Mr. Sampson remonstrated, shak- 
ing his head seriously. ‘* With the highest re- 
spect for you, ma’am, upon my life you mustn’t. 
No, really, you know. When aman with the 
feelings of a gentleman finds himself engaged to 
a young lady, and it comes (even on the part of 
a member of the family) to vipers, you know !— 
I would merely put it to your own good feeling, 
you know,” said Mr. Sampson, in rather lame 
conclusion. 

Mrs. Wilfer’s baleful stare at the young gen- 
tleman in acknowledgment of his obliging inter- 
ference was of such a nature that Miss Lavinia 
burst into tears, and caught him round the neck 
for his protection. 

‘¢My own unnatural mother,” screamed the 
young lady, ‘‘ wants to annihilate George! But 
you sha’n’t be annihilated, George. Tl die 
first !” 

Mr. Sampson, in the arms of his mistress, still 
struggled to shake his head at Mrs. Wilfer, and 


292 


to remark: ‘‘ With every sentiment of respect 
for you, you know, ma’am—vipers really doesn’t 
do you credit.” 

“‘ You shall not be annihilated, George !”’ cried 
Miss Lavinia. ‘* Ma shall destroy me first, and 
then she’ll be contented. Oh, oh, oh! Have 
I lured George from his happy home to expose 
him to this! George, dear, be free! Leave 
me, ever dearest George, to Ma and to my fate. 
Give my love to your aunt, George dear, and im- 
plore her not to curse the viper that has crossed 
your path and blighted your existence. Oh, oh, 
oh!” The young lady who, hysterically speak- 
ing, was only just come of age, and had never 
gone off yet, here fell into a highly creditable 
crisis, which, regarded as a first performance, 
was very successful ; Mr. Sampson, bending over 
the body meanwhile, in a state of distraction 
which induced him to address Mrs. Wilfer in 
the inconsistent expressions: ‘*‘ Demon — with 
the highest respect for you—behold your work !” 

The cherub stood helplessly rubbing his chin 
and looking on, but on the whole was inclined 
to welcome this diversion as one in which, by 
reason of the absorbent properties of hysterics, 
the previous question would become absorbed. 
And so, indeed, it proved, for the Irrepressible 
gradually coming to herself, and asking with 
wild emotion, ‘‘George dear, are you safe?” 
and further, ‘‘ George love, what has happened ? 
Where is Ma?” Mr. Sampson, with words of 
comfort, raised her prostrate form, and handed 
her to Mrs. Wilfer as if the young lady were 
something in the nature of refreshments. Mrs. 
Wilfer with dignity partaking of the refresh- 
ments, by kissing her once on the brow (as if 
accepting an oyster), Miss Lavvy, tottering, re- 
turned to the protection of Mr. Sampson: to 
whom she said, ‘‘ George dear, I am afraid I 
have been foolish; but I am still a little weak 
and giddy; don’t let go my hand, George!” 
And whom she afterward greatly agitated at in- 
tervals, by giving utterance, when least expect- 
ed, to a sound between a sob and a bottle of 
soda-water, that seemed to rend the bosom of 
her frock. 

Among the most remarkable effects of this 
crisis may be mentioned its having, when peace 
was restored, an inexplicable moral influence of 
an elevating kind, on Miss Lavinia, Mrs. Wilfer, 
and Mr. George Sampson, from which R. W. 
was altogether excluded, as an outsider and non- 
sympathizer. Miss Lavinia assumed a modest 
air of having distinguished herself; Mrs. Wilfer, 
a serene air of forgiveness and resignation ; Mr. 
Sampson, an air of having been improved and 
chastened. ‘The influence pervaded the spirit in 
which they returned to the previous question. 

“George dear,” said Lavvy, with a melan- 
choly smile, ‘‘after what has passed, I am sure 
Ma will tell Pa that he may tell Bella we shall 
all be glad to see her and her husband.” 

Mr. Sampson said he was sure of it too; mur- 
muring how eminently he respected Mrs. Wilfer, 
and ever must, and ever would. Never more 
eminently, he added, than after what had passed. 

‘“¢ Far be it from me,” said Mrs. Wilfer, mak- 
ing deep proclamation from her corner, ‘to run 
counter to the feelings of a child of mine, and 
of a Youth,” Mr. Sampson hardly seemed to like 
that word, ‘‘who is the object of her maiden 
preference. I may feel—nay, know—that I have 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


been deluded and deceived. I may feel—nay, 

know—that I have been set aside and passed 
over. I may feel—nay, know—that after having 
so far overcome my repugnance toward Mr. and 
Mrs. Boffin as to receive them under this roof, 

and to consent to your daughter Bella’s,” here 

turning to her husband, ‘residing under theirs, 

it were well if your daughter Bella,” again turn. 

ing to her husband, ‘‘ had profited in a worldly 
point of view by a connection so distasteful, so 
disreputable, I may feel—nay, know—-that in 
uniting herself to Mr. Rokesmith she has united’ 
herself to one who is, in spite of shallow sophist- 
ry, a Mendicant. And I may feel well assured 
that your daughter Bella,” again turning to her 
husband, ‘does not exalt her family by beecom-— 
ing a Mendicant’s bride. But I suppress what 
I feel, and say nothing of it.” , | 

Mr, Sampson murmured that this was the sort 
of thing you might expect fronione who7had : 
ever in her own family been an example-and 
never an outrage. And ever more so (Mr. Samp- 
son added, with some degree of obscurity), and 
never more so, than in and through what had 
passed. He must take the liberty of adding, — 
that what was true of the mother was true of 
the youngest daughter, and that he could never, 
forget the touching feelings that the conduct of © 
both had awakened within him. In conclusion,” 
he did ‘hope ‘that there wasn’t a man-with a” 
beating heart who was capable of something” 
that remained undescribed, in consequence of” 
Miss Lavinia’s stopping him as he reeled in his” 
speech. 

‘¢ Therefore, R. W.,” said Mrs. Wilfer, resum- 
ing her discourse and turning to her lord again, ° 
‘let your daughter Bella come when she will, 
and she will be received. So,” after a short 
pause, and an air of having taken medicine in’ 
it, ‘‘so will her husband.” ae 

‘‘And I beg, Pa,” said Lavinia, ‘‘ that you" 
will not tell Bella what I have undergone.  It- 
can do no good, and it might cause her to re=— 
proach herself.” ts 

‘‘My dearest girl,” urged Mr. Sampson, ‘she 
ought to know it.” aK 

‘* No, George,” said Lavinia, in a tone of res-) 
olute self-denial. ‘‘ No, dearest George, let it 
be buried in oblivion.” sa 

Mr. Sampson considered that ‘‘ too noble.” 

‘* Nothing is too noble, dearest George,” re 
turned Lavinia. ‘‘ And Pa, I hope you will be” 
careful not to refer before Bella, if you can help” 
it, tomy engagement to George. It might seem» 
like reminding her of her having cast herself” 
away. And I hope, Pa, that you will think it~ 
equally right to avoid mentioning George’s ris=" 
ing prospects, when Bella is present. It might’ 
seem like taunting her with her own poor for=- 
tunes. Let me ever remember that I am her 
younger sister, and ever spare her painful con= 
trasts, which could not but wound her sharply.”* 

Mr. Sampson expressed his belief that such — 
was the demeanor of Angels. Miss Lavvy re-" 
plied with solemnity, ‘‘No, dearest George, I 
am but too well aware that I am merely hu- 
man.” toe 

Mrs. Wilfer, for her part, still further im- 
proved the occasion by sitting with her eyes” 
fastened on her husband, like two great black 
notes of interrogation, severely inquiring, Are” 
you looking into your breast? Do you deserve — 


your blessings? Can you lay your hand upon 


your heart and say that you are worthy of so. 


hysterical a daughter? I do not ask you if you 
are worthy of such a wife—put Me out of the 
juestion—but are you sufficiently conscious of, 
and thankful for, the pervading moral grandeur 
of the family spectacle on which you are gazing ? 

These inquiries proved very harassing to R. W., 
who, besides being a little disturbed by wine, 
was in perpetual terror of committing himself 
by the utterance of stray words that would be- 
tray his guilty foreknowledge. However, the 
scene being over, and—all things. considered— 
‘well over, he sought refuge in a doze; which 
gave his lady immense offense. 

**Can you think of your daughter Bella, and 
sleep?” she disdainfully inquired. 

_ Yo which he mildly answered, ‘‘ Yes, I think 
Tecan, my dear.” 

_‘*Then,” said Mrs, Wilfer, with solemn in- 
dignation, ‘‘I would recommend you, if you 
have a human feeling, to retire to bed.” 
~ “Thank you, my dear,” he replied; ‘‘I think 
itis the best place for me.” And with these un- 
sympathetic words very gladly withdrew. 

Within a few weeks afterward the Mendi- 
eant’s bride (arm in arm with the Mendicant) 
came to tea, in fulfillment of an engagement 
made through her father. And the way in 
which the Mendicant’s bride dashed at the un- 
assailable position so considerately to be held 
by Miss Lavvy, and scattered the whole of the 
works in all directions in a moment, was tri- 
umphant. 

_* Dearest Ma,” cried Bella, running into the 
room with a radiant face, ‘Show do you do, 
dearest Ma?”’ And then embraced her, joyous- 
ly. ‘And Lavvy darling, how do you do, and 
how’s George Sampson, and how is he getting 
on, and when are you going to be married, and 
how rich are you going to grow? You must tell 
me all about it, Lavvy dear, immediately. John, 
love, kiss Ma and Lavvy, and then we shall all 
be at home and comfortable.” 


Mrs. Wilfér stared, but was helpless. Miss 
Lavinia stared, but was helpless. Apparently 


With no compunction,. and assuredly with no 
ceremony, Bella tossed her bonnet away, and 
sat down to make the tea. 

- **Dearest Ma and Lavvy, you both take sugar, 
TIknow. And Pa (you good little Pa), you don’t 
take milk. John does. JI didn’t before I was 
married; but I do now, because John docs. 
John dear, did you kiss Ma and Lavvy? Oh, 
you did! Quite correct, John dear; but I 
didn’t see you do it, so I asked. Cut some 
bread and butter, John; that’s a love. Ma 
likes it doubled. And now you must tell me, 
dearest Ma and Lavvy, upon your words and 
honors! Didn’t you for a moment—just a mo- 
ment—think I was a dreadful little wretch when 
I wrote to say I had run away ?” 

Before Mrs. Wilfer could wave her gloves, 
the Mendicant’s bride in her merriest affection- 
ate manner went on again. 

_ J think it must have made you rather cross, 
dear Ma and Lavvy, and I know I deserved that 
you should be very cross. But you see I had 
been such a heedless, heartless creature, and had 
Ted you so to expect that I should marry for 
money, and so to make sure that I was incapa- 
ble of marrying for love, that I thought you 


Py 


¥ | OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


293 


couldn’t believe me. Becanse, you see, you 
didw’t know how much of Good, Good, Good, I 
had learned from Jolin. Well! So I was sly 
about it, and ashamed of what you supposed me 
to be, and fearful that we couldn’t understand 
one another and might come to words, which we 
should all be sorry for afterward, and so I said 
to John that if he liked to take me without any 
fuss he might. And as he did like, I let him. 
And we were married at Greenwich church in 
the presence of nobody—except an unknown in- 
dividual who dropped in,” here her eyes sparkled 
more brightly, ‘‘and half a pensioner. And 
now, isn’t it nice, dearest Ma and Lavvy, to 
know that no words have been said which any 
of us can be sorry for, and that we are all the 
best of friends at the pleasantest of teas !” 

Having got up and kissed them again, she 
slipped back to her chair (after a Joop on the 
road to squeeze her husband reand the neck) 
and again went on. 

*¢ And now you will naturally want to know, 
dearest Ma and Lavvy, how we live, and what 
we have got to live upon. Well! And so we 
live on Blackheath, in the charm—ingest of 
dolls’ houses, de—lightfully furnished, and we 
have a clever little servant who is de—cidedly 
pretty, and we are economical and-orderly, and 
do every thing by clock-work, and we have a hun-- 
dred and fifty pounds a year, and we have all 
we want, and more. “And lastly, if you would 
like to know in confidence, as perhaps you may, 
what is my opinion of my husband, my opinion 
is—that I almost love him!” 

“¢ And if you would like to know in confidence, 
as perhaps you may,” said her husband, smiling, 
vas he stood by her side, without her having de- 
tected his approach, ‘‘my opinion of my wife, 
my opinion is—” But Bella started up, and 
put her hand upon his lips. 

‘¢Stop, Sir! No, John, dear! Seriously! 
Please not yet a while! I want to be something 
so much worthier than the doll in the doll’s 
house.” ‘ 

‘¢ My darling, are you not?” 

‘¢Not half, not a quarter, so much worthier 
as I hope you may some day find me! ‘Try me 
through some reverse, John—try me through 
some trial—and tell them after that, what you 
think of me.” 

‘¢T will, my Life,” said John. 
Itz?) 

‘¢That’s my dear John. 
a word now; will you?” 

‘And I won't,” said John, with a very ex- 
pressive look of admiration around him, ‘‘speak 
a word now!” 

She laid her laughing cheek upon his breast to 
thank him, and said, looking at the rest of them 
sideways out of her bright eyes: ‘‘I’ll go further, 
Pa and Ma and Lavvy. John don’t suspect it 
—he has no idea of it—but I quite love him!” 

Even Mrs. Wilfer relaxed under the influence 
of her married daughter, and seemed in a ma- 
jestic manner to imply remotely that if R. W. 
had been a more deserving object, she too might 
have condescended to come down from her ped- 
estal for his beguilement. Miss Lavinia, on the 
other hand, had strong doubts of the policy of 
the course of treatment, and whether it might 
not spoil Mr. Sampson, if experimented on in 
the case of that young gentleman. RK. W. him- 


‘*T promise 


And you won’t speak 


294 


self was for his part convinced that he was father 
of one of the most charming of girls, and that 
Rokesmith was the most favored of men; which 
opinion, if propounded to him, Rokesmith would 

-yobably not have contested. 

The newly-married pair left early so that they 
might walk at leisure to their starting-place from 
London for Greenwich. At first they were very 
cheerful and talked much; but after a while 
Bella fancied that her husband was turning 
somewhat thoughtful. So she asked him: 

** John dear, what’s the matter ?” 

‘*Matter, my love?” 

‘*Won’t you tell me,” said Bella, looking up 
into his face, ‘* what you are thinking of ?” 

‘‘'There’s not much in the thought, my soul. 
T was thinking whether you wouldn’t like me to 
be rich ?” 

**You rich, John?” repeated Bella, shrinking 
a little. 

‘*T mean, really rich. Say as rich as Mr. 
Boffin. You would like that?” 

**T should be almost afraid to try, John dear, 
Was he much the better for his wealth? Was I 
much the better for the little part I once had in 
it ?”’ 

‘*But all people are not the worse for riches, 
my own.” 

‘“Most people?” Bella musingly suggested 
with raised eyebrows. : 

‘Nor even most people, it may be hoped. 
If you were rich, for instance, you would have 
a great power of doing good to others.” 

‘¢Yes, Sir, for instance,’’ Bella playfully re- 
joined; ‘‘but should [ exercise the power, for 
instance? And again, Sir, for instance; should 
I, at the same time, have a great power of doing 
harm to myself?” 

Laughing and pressing her arm, he retorted 
**But still, again for instance ; would you exer- 
cise that power ?” 

‘**T don’t know,” said Bella, thoughtfully shak- 
ing her head. ‘‘I hopenot. I think not. But 
it’s so easy to hope not and think not, without 
the riches.” 

‘¢ Why don’t you say, my darling—instead of 
that phrase—being poor?” he asked, looking 
earnestly at her. 

‘¢Why don’t I say, being poor? Because I 
am not poor. Dear John, it’s not possible that 
you suppose I think we are poor ?” 

“*T do, my love.” 

, “Oh, John?” : 

‘Understand me, sweet-heart. I know that I 
am rich beyond all wealth in having you; but I 
think of you and think for you. In such a 
dress as you are wearing now you first char med 
me, and in no dress could you ever look, to my 
thinking, more graceful or more beautiful. But 
you have admired many finer dresses this very 
day; and is it not natural that I wish I could 
give them to you?” 

‘*Tt’s very nice that you should wish it, John. 
It brings these tears of grateful pleasure into my 
eyes to hear you say so with such tenderness. 
But I don’t want them.” 

‘¢ Again,” he pursued, “we are now walking 
through the muddy streets. I love those pretty 
feet so dearly that I feel as if I could not bear 
the dirt to soil the sole of your shoe. Is it not 
natural that I wish you could ride in a car- 
riage ?” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


: | aged nothing else. 


‘‘Tt’s very nice,” said Bella, glancing do Ne 


ward at the feet in question, ‘‘ to know that you 
admire them so much, John dear, and since you | 
do, I am sorry that these shoes are a full size 


too large. But I don’t want a carriage, believe 
me.’ N 


‘You would dike one if you could have one, 


Bella?” 
“T shouldn't like it for its own sake half. so 
well as such a wish for it. Dear John, your 


wishes are as real to me as the wishes in the 
Fairy story that were all fulfilled as soon as 


spoken. Wish me every thing that you can wish | 


for the woman you dearly love, and I have as | 


good as got it, John. 
John!” 
They were not the less happy for such talk, 


I have better than got it, 


and home was not the less home for coming afta ; 
Bella was fast developing a perfect genius — 


it. 
for home. All the loves and graces seemed (her 
husband thought) to have taken domestic service 
with her, and to help her to make home engaging. 
Her married life glided happily on. She was” 


alone all day, for, after an early breakfast, her — 


husband repaired every morning to the City, 
and did nob return until their late dinner hour. 
He was *‘in a China house,” 
Bella: tate she found quite satisfactory with- 


out pursuing the China house into minuter de- | 


tails than a wholesale vision of tea, rice, odd= 


smelling silks, carved boxes, and tight-eyed peo- — 
ple in more than double-soled shoes, with their — 
pigtails pulling their heads of hair off, painted 
She always walked — 


on transparent porcelain. 


i 


he explained to — 


| 


with her husband to the railroad, and was al-— 


ways there again to meet him; her old coquet- 


tish ways a little sobered down (but not much), - 


and her dress as daintily 


and Bella returned home, the dress would be 
laid aside, trim little wrappers and aprons would 
be substituted, and Bella, putting back her hair 
with both hands, as if she were making the most. 
business-like arrangements for going dramatic- 
ally distracted, would enter on the household 
affairs of the day. Such weighing and mixing” 
and chopping and grating, such dusting and 
washing and polishing, such snipping and weed- 
ing and troweling and other small gardening, © 
such making and mending and folding and air- 
ing, such diverse arrangements, and above all 
such severe study! For Mrs. J. R., who had ~ 
never been wont to do too much at home as 
Miss B. W., was under the constant necessity 
of referring for advice and support to a sage 
volume entitled The Complete British Family. 
Housewife, which she would sit consulting, with 
her elbows on the table and her temples on her 
hands, like some perplexed enchantress poring — 
over the Black Art. This, principally because- 
ithe Complete British Housewife, however sound 
‘a Briton at heart, was by no means an expert 
Briton at expressing herself with clearness in 
the British tongue, and sometimes might have 
issued her directions to equal purpose in the 
Kamskatchan language. In any crisis of this” 
nature Bella would suddenly exclaim aloud, — 
‘*Oh you ridiculous old thing, what do yous 
mean by that? You must have been drinking 
And having made this marginal note, would 
try the Housewife again, with all her imp! : 


managed as if she man- 
But John gone to business | 


4 


me 


ee ee 


‘There was likewise a coolness on the part of 


ae 


< 


the British Housewife, which Mrs. John Roke- 


‘smith found highly exasperating. She would 
‘say, ‘‘ Take a salamander,” as if a general should 
command a private to catch a Tartar. Or she 
“would casually issue the order, ‘‘ Throw in a 
handful—” of something entirely unattainable. 
In these, the Housewife’s most glaring moments 
of unreason, Bella would shut her up and knock 
her on the table, apostrephizing her with the 
‘compliment, ‘‘O you are a stupid old Donkey ! 
Where am [I to get it, do you think ?” 

Another branch of study claimed the atten- 
tion of Mrs. John Rokesmith for a regular pe- 
riod every day. This was the mastering of the 
newspaper, so that she might be close up with 
John on general topics when John came home. 
In her desire to be in all things his companion 
she would have set herself with equal zeal to 
master Algebra, or Enclid, if he had divided 
his soul between her and either. Wonderful 
was the way in which she would store up the 
City Intelligence, and beamingly shed it upon 
John in the course of the evening; incidentally 
mentioning the commodities that were looking 
up in the markets, and how much gold had been 
taken to the Bank, and trying to look wise and 
‘serious over it until she would laugh at herself 
‘most charmingly and would say, kissing him: 
Tt all comes of my love, John dear.” 

For a City man John certainly did appear to 
care as little as might be for the looking up or 
looking down of things, as well as for the gold 
‘that got taken to the Bank. But he cared, be- 


yond all expression, for his wife, as a most pre-, 


cious and sweet commodity that was always 
looking up, and that never was worth less than 
all the gold in the world. And she, being in- 


. spired by her affection, and having a quick wit 


pe, 


a 


and a fine ready instinct, made amazing pro- 
gress in her domestic efficiency, though, as an 
endearing creature, she made no progress at all. 
This was her husband’s verdict, and he justified 
-it by telling her that she had begun her married 
life as the most endearing creature that could 


possibly be. 


‘And you have such a cheerful spirit!” he 
said, fondly. ‘* You are like a bright light in 
‘the house.” 
~ “Am I truly, John?” 

“Are you truly? Yes, indeed. 
more, and much better.” 
_ **Do you know, John dear,’ said Bella, tak- 


Only much 


ing him by a button of his coat, ‘that I some- 


times, at odd moments—don’t laugh, John, 
please.” 

Nothing should induce John to do it, when 
she asked him not to do it. 

_**__That I sometimes think, John, I feel a 

little serious.” 

** Are you too much alone, my darling?” 

“QO dear, no, John! The time isso short that 
I have not a moment too much in the week.” 

‘‘ Why serious, my life, then? When seri- 
ous ?” . 
_ **When I laugh, I think,” said Bella, langh- 
ing as she laid her head upon his shoulder. 


“You wouldn’t believe, Sir, that I feel serious 


how? But Ido.” And she laughed again, and 


_ Something glistened in her eyes. 
i 


_ ‘* Would you like to be rich, pet?” he asked 


her, coaxingly. 
‘ hia. 


OUR MUTYAL FRIEND. 


| 


295 
“Rich, John! 


questions ?” 

‘*Do you regret any thing, my love?” : 

‘Regret any thing? No!” Bella confidently 
answered. But then, suddenly changing, she 
said, between laughing and glistening: ‘*Oh 
yes, Ido though. I regret Mrs. Boffin.” 

‘*], too, regret that separation very much. 
But perhaps it is only temporary. Perhaps 
things may so fall out as that you may some- 
times see her again—as that we may sometimes 
see her again.” Bella might be very anxious 
on the subject, but she scarcely seemed so at the 
moment, With an absent air she was investi- 
gating that button on her husband’s coat when 
Pa came in to spend the evening. 

Pa had his special chair and his special cor- 
ner reserved for him on all occasions, and— 
without disparagement of his domestic joys— 
was far happier there than any where. It was 
always pleasantly droll to see Pa and Bella to- 
gether; but on this present evening her hus- 
band thought her more than usually fantastic 
with him. 

‘‘You are a very good little boy,” said Bella, 
‘‘to come unexpectedly, as soon as you could 
get out of school. And how have they used 
you at school to-day, you dear?” 

‘‘ Well, my pet,” replied the cherub, smiling 
and rubbing his hands as she sat him down in 
his chair, “I attend two schools. There’s the 
Mincing Lane establishment, and there’s your 
mother’s Academy. Which might you mean, 
my dear?” 

‘¢ Both,’’ said Bella. ° 

‘Both, eh? Why, to say the truth, both have 
taken a little out of me to-day, my dear, but that 
was to be expected. There’s no royal road to 
learning; and what is life but learning !” 

‘*And what do you do with yourself when 
you have got your learning by heart, you silly 
child.?” 

‘* Why then, my dear,” said the cherub, after 


How can you ask such goose’s 


| a little consideration, ‘‘I suppose I die.” 


‘*You are a very bad boy,” retorted Bella, 
‘*to talk about dismal things and be out of 
spirits.” 

‘¢My Bella,” rejoined her father, ‘*I am not 
out of spirits. J am as gay asa lark.” Which 
his face confirmed. 

“Then if you are sure and certain it’s not 
you, I suppose it must be I,” said Bella; ‘‘so I 
won't do so any more. John dear, we must give 


this little fellow his supper, you know.” 


‘¢Of course we must, my darling.” 

‘*He has been grubbing and grubbing at 
school,” said Bella, looking at her father’s hand . 
and lightly slapping it, ‘‘till he’s not fit to be 
seen. O what a grubby child!” 

‘‘Indeed, my dear,” said her father, ‘‘I was 
going to ask to be allowed to wash my hands, 
only you find me out so soon.” 

‘¢Come here, Sir!” cried Bella, taking him 
by the front of his coat, ‘‘come here and be 
washed directly. You are not to be trusted to 
do it for yourself. Come here, Sir!” 

The cherub, to his genial amusement, was ac- 
cordingly conducted to a little washing-room, 
where Bella soaped his face and rubbed his face, 
and soaped his hands and rubbed his hands, and 
splashed him and rinsed him and toweled him, 
until he was as red as beet-root, even to his very, 


296 OUR Mutha FRIEND. 


ears: ‘‘ Now you must be brushed and combed, 
Sir,” said Bella, busily. ‘‘ Hold the light, John. 
Shut your eyes, Sir, and let me take hold of 
your chin. Be good directly, and do as you 
are told!” 

Her father being more than willing to obey, 
she dressed his hair in her most elaborate man- 
ner, brushing it out straight, parting it, winding 
it over her fingers, sticking it up on end, and 
constantly falling back on John to get a good 
look at the effect of it. Who always received 
her on his disengaged arm, and detained her, 
while the patient cherub stood waiting to be 
finished. 

‘*There!” said Bella, when she had at last 
completed the final touches. ‘Now, you are 
something like a genteel boy! Put your jacket 
on, and come and have your supper.” 

The cherub investing himself with his coat 
was led back to his corner—where, but for hav- 
ing no egotism in his pleasant nature, he would 
have answered well enough for that radiant 
though self-sufficient boy, Jack Horner—Bella 
with her own hands laid a cloth for him, and 
brought him his supper on a tray, ‘‘ Stop a mo- 
ment,” said she, ‘‘ we must keep his little clothes 
clean ;” and tied a napkin under his chin, in a 
very methodical manner. 

While he took his supper Bella sat by him, 
sometimes admonishing him to hold his fork by 
the handle, like a polite child, and at other times 
carving for him, or pouring out his drink. Fan- 
tastic as it all was, and accustomed as she ever 
had been to make a plaything of her good father, 
ever delighted that she should put him to that 
account, still there was an occasional something 
on Bella’s part that was new. It could not be 
said that she was less playful, whimsical, or nat- 
ural than she always had been; but it seemed, 
her husband thought, as if there were some rather 
graver reason than he had supposed for what 
she had so lately said, and as if, throughout all 
this, there were glimpses of an underlying seri- 
ousness, 

It was a circumstance in support of this view 
of the case, that when she had lighted her father’s 
pipe, and mixed him his glass of grog, she sat 
down on a stool between her father and her hus- 
band, leaning her arm upon the latter, and was 


very quiet. So quiet that, when her father rose. 


to take his leave, she looked round with a start, 
as if she had forgotten his being there. 

‘You go a little way with Pa, John?” 

**Yes, my dear. Do you?” 

‘**] have not written to Lizzie Hexam since I 
wrote and told her that I really had a lover—a 
whole one. [I have often thonght I would like 
to tell her how right she was when she pretended 
to read in the live coals that I would go through 
fire and water for him. I am in the humor to 
tell her so to-night, John, and I’ll stay at home 
and do it.” 

‘*You are tired.” 

**Not at all tired, John dear, but in the hu- 
mor to write to Lizzie. Good-night, dear Pa. 
Good-night, you dear, good, gentle Pa!” 

Left to herself, she sat down to write, and 
wrote Lizzie a long letter. She had but com- 
pleted it and read it over, when her husband 
came back. ‘‘You are just in time, Sir,” said 
Bella; ‘‘I am going to give you your first cur- 
tain lecture. It shall be a parlor-curtain lecture. 
§ 


You shall take this chair of mine when I haye 
folded my letter, and I will take the stool (though — 
you ought to take it, I can tell you, Sir, if it’s | 
the stool of repentance), and you'll soon find | 
yourself taken to task soundly.” a | 

Her letter folded, sealed, and directed, and | 
her pen wiped, and her middle finger wiped, and > 
her desk locked up and put away, and these ~ 
transactions performed with an air of severe bus- 
iness sedateness, which the Complete British 
Housewife might have assumed, and certainly © 
would not have rounded off and broken down 
in with a musical laugh, as Bella did: she placed 
her husband in his chair, and placed herself upon 
her stool. 

‘‘Now, Sir! To begin at the beginning. 
What is your name?” 

A question more decidedly rushing at the se- 
cret he was keeping from her could not have 
astounded him. But he kept his countenance 
and his secret, and ayswered, ‘‘ John Rokesmith, 
my dear.” 

‘*Good boy! - Who gave you that name ?” 

With a returning suspicion that something 
might have betrayed him to her, he answered, 
interrogatively, ‘‘ My godfathers and my god- 
mothers, dear love ?” 

‘Pretty good!” said Bella. ‘‘ Not goodest 
good, because you hesitate about it. However, — 
as you know your Catechism fairly, so far, VL_ 
let you off the rest. Now, I am going to exam- © 
ine you out of my own head. John dear, why — 
did you go back, this evening, to the question 
you once asked me before—would I like to be 
rich?” 

Again, his secret! He looked down at her as 
she looked up at_him, with her hands folded on~ 
his knee, and it was as nearly told as ever secret 
was. 

Having no reply ready, he could do no better 
than embrace her, 

‘*In short, dear John,” said Bella, ‘‘ this is ~ 
the topic of my lecture: I want nothing on earth, 
and I want you to believe it.” | 

‘* Tf that’s all, the lecture may be considered 
over, for I do.” 

‘‘Tt’s not all, John dear,” Bella hesitated. 
‘*Tt’s only Firstly. There’s a dreadful Seeond- 
ly, and a dreadful Thirdly to come—as I used to 
say to myself in sermon-time when I was a yery 
small-sized sinner at church.” 

‘* Let them come, my dearest.” ag 

*‘Are you sure, John dear; are you ab- © 
solutely certain in your innermost heart of — 
hearts— ?” ty 

‘¢ Which is not in my keeping,” he rejoined. _ 

‘No, John, but the key is.—Are you abso-— 
lutely certain that down at the bottom of that 
heart of hearts, which you have given to me as I — 
have given mine to you, there is no remembrance — 
that I was once very mercenary ?” 

‘‘ Why, if there were no remembrance in me 
of the time you speak of,” he softly asked her 
with his lips to hers, ‘‘ could I love you quite as 
well as I do; could I have in the Calendar of 
my life the brightest of its days; could I, when- 
ever I look at your dear face, or hear your dear ~ 
voice, see and hear my noble champion? It — 
can never have been that which made you seri- — 
ous, darling ?” } ia 

‘No, John, it wasn’t that, and still less was _ 
it Mrs. Boffin, though I love her. Wait & mo- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


‘ment and J’ll go on with the lecture. Give me 
a moment, because I like to ery for joy. It’s so 

delicious, John dear, to cry for joy.” 

- She did so on his neck, and, still clinging 
there, laughed a little when she said, ‘‘I think 
I am ready now for Thirdly, John.” 

‘«7 am ready for Thirdly,” said John, ‘ what- 
ever itis.” > 

‘‘T believe, John,” pursued Bella, ‘that you 
believe that I believe—” 

‘*My dear child,” cried her husband gayly, 
“what a quantity of believing!” 

} Tsn’t there ?” said Bella, with another laugh. 
“‘T never knew such a quantity! It’s like verbs 
in an exercise. But I can’t get on with less be- 
lieving. I'll try again. I believe, dear John, 
that you believe that I believe that we have as 
much money as we require, and that we want 
for nothing.” 

“Jt is strictly true, Bella.” 

‘¢But if our money should by any means be 
rendered not so much—if we had to stint our- 
selves a little in purchases that we can af- 
ford to make now — would you still have the 
same confidence in my being quite contented, 
John ?” 

‘« Precisely the same confidence, my soul.” 

“Thank you, John dear, thousands upon 
thousands of times. And I may take it for 
granted, no doubt,” with a little faltering, ‘that 
you would be quite as contented yourself, John ? 
But, yes, I know I may. For, knowing: that I 
should be so, how surely I may know that you 
would be so; you who are so much stronger, and 
firmer, and more reasonable and more generous, 
than I am.” 

<¢ Hush!” said her husband, ‘‘I must not hear 
that. You are all wrong there, though other- 
wise as right ascanbe. And now J] am brought 
to a little piece of news, my dearest, that I might 
have told you earlier in the evening. 1 have 
strong reason for confidently believing that we 

shall never be in the receipt of a smaller income 
than our present income,” 

She might have shown herself more interested 
in the intelligence; but she had returned to the 
investigation of the coat-button that had engaged 
her attention a few hours before, and scarcely 
seemed to heed what he said. 

-¢ And now we have got to the bottom of it at 
last,” cried her husband, rallying her, ‘‘ and this 
is the thing that made you serious?” 

‘No, dear,” said Bella, twisting the button 
and shaking her head, ‘‘it wasn’t this.” 

‘Why then, Lord bless this little wife of 
mine, there’s a Fourthly!” exclaimed John. 

“This worried me a little, and so did Second- 
ly,” said Bella, occupied with the button, ‘‘ but 
it was quite another sort of seriousness—a much 

‘deeper and quieter sort of seriousness—that I 

_spoke of, John dear.” 

As he bent his face to hers, she raised hers to 
meet it, and laid her little right hand on his 
eyes and kept it there... 

‘*Do you remember, John, on the day we 
were married, Pa’s speaking of the ships that 
might be sailing toward us from the unknown 
seas ?” 
~ “Perfectly, my darling!” 

_ J think......among them......there is a ship 

- upon the ocean......bringing......to you and me 

 ,,..ee2 little baby, John.” 

19 


| 297 


CHAPTER VI. 
A CRY FOR HELP. 


Tur Paper Mill had stopped work for the 
night, and the paths and roads in its neighbor- 
hood were sprinkled with clusters of people going 
home from their day’s labor in it. There were 
men, women, and children in the groups, and 
there was no want of lively color to flutter in 
the gentle evening wind. The mingling of 
various voices and the sound of laughter made 
a cheerful impression upon the ear, analogous 
to that of the fluttering colors upon the eye. 
Into the sheet of water reflecting the flushed sky 
in the fore-ground of the living picture, a‘knot 
of urchins were casting stones, and watching the 
expansion of the rippling circles. So, in the 
rosy evening, one might watch the ever-widen- 
ing beauty of the landscape—beyond the newly- 
released workers wending home — beyond the 
silver river—beyond the deep green fields of 
corn, so prospering, that the loiterers in their 
narrow threads of pathway seemed to float im- 
mersed breast-high—beyond the hedge-rows and 
the clumps of trees—beyond the wind-mills on 
the ridge—away to where the sky appeared to 
meet the earth, as if there were no immensity 
of space between mankind and Heaven. 

It was a Saturday evening, and at such a time 
the village dogs, always much more interested 
in the doings of-humanity than in the affairs of 
their own species, were particularly active. At 
the general shop, at the butcher's and at the 
public house, they evinced an inquiring spirit 
never to be satiated ‘Their especial interest m 
the public house would seem to imply some la- 
tent rakishness in the canine character ; for lit- 
tle was eaten there, and they, having no taste 
for beer or tobacco (Mrs. Hubbard’s dog is said 
to have smoked, but proof is wanting), could 
only have been attracted by sympathy with loose 
convivial habits. Moreover, a most wretched 
fiddle played within; a fiddle so unutterably 
vile, that one lean long-bodied cur, with a better 
ear than the rest, found himself under compul- 
sion at intervals to go round the corner and 
howl. Yet even he returned to the public 
house on each occasion with the tenacity of a 
confirmed drunkard. 

Fearful to relate, there was even a sort of lit- 
tle Fair in the village. Some despairing ginger- 
bread that had been vainly trying to dispose of 
itself all over the country, and had cast a quan- 
tity of dust upon its head in its mortification, 
again appealed to the public from an infirm 
booth. So did a heap of nuts, long, long exiled 
from Barcelona, and yet speaking English so in- 
differently as to call fourteen of themselves a 
pint. A Peep-show which had originally start- 
ed with the Battle of Waterloo, and had since 
made it every other battle of later date by alter- 
ing the Duke of Wellington’s nose, tempted the 
student of illustrated history. A Fat Lady, per- 
haps in part sustained upon postponed pork, her 
professional associate being a Learned Pig, dis- 
played her life-size picture in a low dress as she 
appeared when presented at Court, several yards 
round. All this was vicious spectacle as any 
poor idea of amusement on the part of the rough- 
er hewers of wood and drawers of water in this 
land of England ever is and shall be. ‘They 
must not vary. the rheumatism with amusement. 


Fi 


298 ae 
They may vary it with fever and ague, or with 
as many rheumatic variations as they have 
joints; but positively not with entertainment 
after their own manner. 

The various sounds arising from this scene of 
depravity, and floating away into the still even- 
ing air, made the evening, at any point which 
they just reached fitfully, mellowed by the dis- 
tance, more still by contrast. Such was the 
stillness of the evening to Eugene Wrayburn, as 
he walked by the river with his hands behind him. 

He walked slowly, and with the measured step 
and preoccupied air of one who was waiting. 
He walked between the two points, an osier-bed 
at this end and some floating lilies at that, and 
at each point stopped and looked expectantly in 
one direction. 

“It is very quiet,’’ said he. 

It was very quiet. Some sheep were grazing 
on the grass by the river-side, and it seemed to 
him that he had never before heard the crisp 
tearing sound with which they cropped it. He 
stopped idly, and looked at them. 

‘You are stupid enough, I suppose. But if 
you are clever enough to get through life toler- 
ably tg your satisfaction, you have got the better 
of me, Man as I am, and Mutton as you are!” 

A rustle in a field beyond the hedge attracted 
his attention. ‘*What’s here to do?” he asked 
himself, leisurely going toward the gate and look- 
ingover. ‘‘Nojealous paper-miller? No pleas- 
ures of the chase in this part of the country? 
Mostly fishing hereabouts !”” 

The field had been newly mown, and there 
were yet the marks of the scythe on the yellow- 
green ground, and the track of wheels where the 
hay had been. carried. Following the tracks 
with his eyes, the view closed with the new hay- 
rick in a corner. 

Now, if he had gone on to the hayrick, and 
gone round it? But, say that the event was to 
ve, as the event fell out, and how idle are such 
suppositions! Besides, if he had gone; what is 
there of warning in a Bargeman lying on his 
face ? 

‘A bird flying to the hedge,” was all he 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


thought about it; and came back, and resumed 
his walk. 

“¢Tf J had not a reliance on her being truth- 
ful,” said Eugene, after taking some half dozen 
turns, ‘‘I should begin to think she had given 
me the slip for the second time. But she prom- 
ised, and she is a girl of her word.” 

Turning again at the water-lilies, he saw her 
coming, and advanced to meet her. 

“‘T was saving to myself, Lizzie, that you 
were sure to come, though you were late.” 

“‘T had to linger through the village as if I 
had no object before me, and I had to speak to 
several people in passing along, Mr. Wray- 
burn.” 

‘< Are the lads of the village—and the ladies 
—stuch scandal-mongers ?”’ he asked, as he took 
her hand and drew it through his arm. 

She submitted to walk slowly on, with down- 
cast eyes. He put her hand to his lips, and she 
quietly drew it away. 

‘¢Will you walk beside me, Mr. Wrayburn, 
and not touch me?” For his arm was already 
stealing round her waist. | 

She stopped again, and gave him an earnest, 
supplicating look. ‘‘ Well, Lizzie, well!” said 


he, in an easy way though ill at ease with him- 
self, ‘“‘don’t be unhappy, don’t be reproachful.” 

‘*T can not help being unhappy, but I do not 
mean to be reproachful. Mr. Wrayburn, I im- 


plore you to go away from this neighborhood . 


to-morrow morning.” 

‘‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!” he remonstrated. 
‘* As well be reproachful as wholly unreasonable, 
I can’t go away.” 

‘“Why not?” 

“Faith!” said Eugene, in his airily candid 
manner. ‘‘ Because you won't let me. Mind! 
I don’t mean to be reproachful either. I don’t 
complain that you design to keep mehere. But 
you do it, you do it.” 

‘‘ Will you walk beside me, and not tonch 
me,” for his arm was coming about her again; 
‘*while I speak to you yery seriously, Mr. Wray- 
burn ?” 


‘<T will do any thing within the limits of pos- 


sibility for you, Lizzie,” he answered with pleas- 
ant gayety as he folded his arms. ‘‘See here! 
Napoleon Bonaparte at St. Helena.” 

‘¢ When you spoke to me as I came from the 
Mill the night before last,” said Lizzie, fixing 


‘her eyes upon him with the look of supplication 


which troubled his better nature, ‘‘ you told me 


|that you were much surprised to see me, and 


that you were on a Solitary fishing excursion. 
Was it true ?” 

“‘It was not,” replied Eugene, composedly, 
‘in the least true. I came here because I had 
information that I should find you here.” 

**Can you imagine why I left London, Mr. 
Wrayburn ?” 

‘‘T am afraid, Lizzie,’ he openly answered, 
‘*that you left London to get rid of me. It is 
not flattering to my self-love, but I am afraid 
you did.” 

“T did.” 

“ How could you be so cruel ?” 

‘*Q Mr. Wrayburn,” she answered, suddenly 
breaking into tears, ‘‘is the cruelty on my side! 
O Mr. Wrayburn, Mr. Wrayburn, is there no 
cruelty in your being here to-night!” 

‘Tn the name of all that’s good—and that is 
not conjuring you in my own name, for Heaven 
knows I am not good”—said Eugene, don’t be 
distressed !” 

‘¢ What else can I be, when I know the dis- 
tance and the difference between us? What 
else can I be, when to tell me why you came 
here is to put me to shame!” said Lizzie, cov- 
ering her face. 

He looked at her with a real sentiment of re- 
morseful tenderness and pity. It was not strong 
enough to impel him to sacrifice himself and 
spare her, but it was a strong emotion. 

‘¢ Lizzie! I never thought before that there 
was a woman in the world who could affect me 
so much by saying so little. But don’t be hard 
in your construction of me. You don’t know 
what my state of mind toward you is. 
don’t know how you haunt me and bewilder me. 


You” 


ou don’t know how the cursed carelessness that _ 


js over-officious in helping me at every other 
turning of my life, won’r help me here. You 
have struck it dead, I think, and I sometimes al- 

ost wish you had struck me dead along with it.” 


_ She had not been prepared for such passion- _ 


ate expressions, and they awakened some nat- 


ural sparks of feminine pride and joy in her 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


breast. To consider, wrong as he was, that he | 
could care so much for her, and that she had 
the power to move him so! 

‘It grieves you to see me distressed, Mr. 
Wrayburn ; it gricves me to see you distressed. 
1 don’t reproach you. Indeed I don’t reproach 
you. You have not felt this as I feel it, being 
so different from me, and beginning from an- 
other point of view. You have not thought. But 
I entreat you to think now, think now !’” 

‘“What am I to think of?” asked Eugene, 
bitterly. | 

‘¢Think of me.” 

‘<Tell me how not to think of you, Lizzie, and 
you'll change me altogether.” 

“‘T don’t mean in that way. Think of me as 
belonging to another station, and quite cut off 
from you in honor. Remember that I have no 
protector near me, unless I have one in your 
noble heart. Respect my good name. If you 
feel toward me, in one particular, as you might 
if I was a lady, give me the full claims of a lady 
upon your generous behavior. I am removed 
from you and your family by being a working 
girl. How true a gentleman to be as consid- 
erate of me as if I was removed by being a 
Queen !” 

He would have been base indeed to have stood 
untouched. by her appeal. His face expressed 
contrition and indecision as he asked : 

‘¢Have I injured you so much, Lizzie ?”, 

‘‘No, no. You may set. me quite right. I 
‘don’t speak of the past, Mr. Wrayburn, but of 
the present and the future. Are we not here | 
now, because through two days you have fol- 
lowed me so closely where there are so many 
eyes to see you, that I consented to this appoint- 
ment as an escape ?” 

‘< Again, not very flattering to my self-love,” 
said Eugene, moodily; ‘‘but yes. Yes. Yes.” 

‘*Then I beseech you, Mr. Wrayburn, I beg 
and pray you, leave this neighborhood. If you 
do not, consider to what you will drive me.” 

He did consider within himself for a moment | 
or two, and then retorted, “Drive you? To° 
what shall I drive you, Lizzie?” 

‘¢You will drive me away. I live here peace- 
fully and respected, and I am well employed 
here. You will force mé to quit this place as I 
quitted London, and—-by following me again— | 
will force me to quit the next place in which I 
may find refuge, as I quitted this.” 

«Are you so determined, Lizzie—forgive the | 
word [ am going to use, for its literal truth—to | 
fly from a lover ?” 

‘‘T am so determined,” she answered reso- | 
-Jutely, though trembling, ‘to fly from such a 
lover. There was a poor woman died here but a 
‘little while ago, scores of years older than I 
am, whom I found by chance, Iving on the wet 
earth. You may have heard some account of 
her?” 

*‘T think I have,” he answered, ‘‘if her name 
was Higden.” 

'. Her name was Higden. Though she was so 
weak and old, she kept true to one purpose to 
the very last. Even at the very last, she made 
me promise that her purpose should be kept to, 
after she was dead, so settled was her determin- 
ation. What she did, I can.do. Mr. Wray- 
burn, if I believed—but I do not believe—that 
you could be so cruel to me as to drive me from 


—\— 


‘looked at me so attentively ? 


299 


place to place to wear me out, you should drive 
me to death and not do it.” , 

He looked full at her handsome face, and in 
his own handsome face there was a light of blend- 
ed admiration, anger, and reproach, which she 
—who loved him so in secret—whose heart had 
long been so full, and he the cause of its over- 
flowing—drooped before. She tried hard to re- 
tain her firmness, but he saw it melting away 
under his eyes. In the moment of its dissolu- 
tion, and of his first full knowledge of his influ- 
ence upon her, she dropped, and he caught her 
on his arm. 

“ Lizzie§ Rest soa moment. Answer what 
I ask you. IfI had not been what you call re-. 
moved from you and cut off from you, would 
you have made this ‘appeal to me to leave you?” 

‘I don’t know, I don’t know. Don’t ask me, 
Mr. Wrayburn. Let me go back.” 

‘“‘T swear to you, Lizzie, you shall go direct- 
ly. I swear to you, you shall go alone. [ll not 
accompany you, I'll not follow you, if you will 
reply.” 

‘¢How can I, Mr. Wrayburn? How can I 
tell you what I should have done if you had not 
been what you are ?” i 

‘¢Tf I had not been what you make me out to 
be,” he struck in, skillfully changing the form 
of words, ‘‘ would you still have hated me ?” 

‘©( Mr. Wrayburn,” she replied appealingly, 
and weeping, ‘‘ you know me better than to think 
Ido!” 

“Tf J had not been what you make me out to 
be, Lizzie, would you still have been indifferent 
to me?” 

‘©(Q Mr. Wrayburn,” she answered as before, 
‘¢you know me better than that too!” 

There was something in the attitude of her 
whole figure as he supported it, and she hung 
her head, which besought him to be merciful 
and not force her to disclose her heart. He was 


not merciful with her, and he made her do it. 


‘If I know you better than quite to believe 
(unfortunate dog that I am!) that you hate me, 
or even that you are wholly indiffercnt to me, 


| Lizzie, let me know so much more from your- 


self before we separate, Let me know how you 
would have dealt with me if you had regarded 


-me as being what you would have considered 


on equal terms with you.” 

‘‘Tt is impossible, Mr. Wrayburn. How can 
I think of you as being on equal terms with me? 
If my mind could put you on equal terms with 
me, you could not be yourself. How could I 
remember, then, the night when I first saw you, 
and when I went out of the room because you 
Or, the night that 
passed into the morning when you broke to me 
that my father was dead? Or, the nights when 


| you used to come to see me at my next home? 


Or, your having known how uninstructed I was, 
and having caused me to be taught. better? Or, 
my having so looked up to you and wondered at 
you, and at first thought you so good to be at 
all mindful of me?” 

‘Only ‘at first? thought me so good, Lizzie? 
What did you think me after ‘at first?’ So bad ?” 

‘‘[ don’t say that. I don’t mean that. But 
after the first wonder and pleasure of being no- 
ticed by one so different from any one who had 
ever spoken to me, I began to feel that it might 
have been better if I had never seen you.” 


300 


\ 


“¢°Why ?” 

‘* Because you were so different,” she answered 
in a lower voice. ‘‘ Because it was so endless, 
so hopeless. Spare me!” 

**Did you think for me at all, Lizzie?” he 
asked, as if he were a little stung. 

‘*Not much, Mr. Wrayburn. Not much un- 
til to-night.” 

*¢ Will you tell me why ?” 

“‘T never supposed until to-night that you 
needed to be thought for. But if you do need 
to be; if you do truly feel at heart that you have 
indeed been toward me what you have called 
yourself to-night, and that there is nothing for 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


nor follow you. 


aN RS 4 
SSN LS 


THE PARTING BY THE RIVER, 


us in this life but separation; then Heaven help 
you, and Heaven bless you!” 

The purity with which in these words she ex- 
pressed something of her own love and her own 
suffering, made a deep impression on him for 
the passing time. He held her, almost as if she 
were sanctified to him by death, and kissed her, 
once, almost as he might have kissed the dead. 

‘“T promised that I would not accompany you, 
Shall I keep you in view? You 
have been agitated, and it’s growing dark.” 

‘‘T am used to be out alone at this hour, and 
T entreat you not to doso.” hia 

‘“‘T promise. J can bring myself to promise 

a 


; 
i 


+ 


- nothing more to-night, Lizzie, except that I will 
try what I can do” 

‘There is but one means, Mr. Wrayburn, of 
sparing yourself and of sparing me, every way. 
Leave this neighborhood to-morrow morning.” 

“¢T will try.” ) 

As he spoke the words in a grave voice, she 
put her hand in his, removed it, and went away 
by the river-side. 

‘¢Now, could Mortimer believe this?” mur- 
mured Eugene, still’ remaining, after a while, 
where she had left him. ‘‘Can 1 even believe 
it myself?” 

Ue referred to the circumstance that there 
were tears upon his hand, as he stood covering 

-his eyes. ‘‘A most ridiculous position this to 
be found out in!” was his next thonght. And 
his next struck its root in a little rising resent- 
ment against the cause of the tears. 

‘¢Yet I have gained a wonderful power over 
her, too, let her be as much in earnest as she 
will!” ae 

The reflection brought back the yielding of 
her face and form as she had drooped under 
his gaze. Contemplating the reproduction, he 
seemed to see, for the second time, in the ap- 
peal and in the confession of weakness, a little 
fear. 

*¢ And she loves me. And so earnest a char- 
cacter must be very earnest in that passion. She 
‘ean not choose for herself to be strong in this 
fancy, wavering in that, and weak in the other’ 
She must go through with her nature, as I must 
go through with mine. If mine exacts its pains 
and penalties all round, so must hers, I sup- 
pose.” 

Pursuing the inquiry into his own nature, he 
thought, *‘ Now, if I married her. If, outfacing 
the absurdity of the situation in correspondence 
with M. R. F., I astonished M. R. F. to the ut- 
most extent of his respected powers, by inform- 
ing him that I had married her, how would M. 
R. F. reason with the legal mind? ‘You wouldn't 
marry for some money and some station, because 
you were frightfully likely to become bored. Are 
you less frightfully likely to become bored, mar- 
rying for no money and no station? Are you 
sure of yourself?’ egal mind, in spite of fo- 
rensic protestations, must secretly admit, ‘Good 
reasoning on the part of M. R. F. Noé sure of 
myself.’ ” 

In the very act of calling this tone of levity to 
his aid he felt it to be profligate and worthless, 
and asserted her against it. 

‘¢And yet,” said Eugene, ‘“‘I should like to 
see the fellow (Mortimer excepted) who would 
undertake to tell me that this was not a real 
sentiment on my part, won out of me by her 
beauty and her worth, in spite of myself, and 
that I would not be true to her. I should par- 
ticularly like to see thé fellow to-night who would 
tell me so, or who would tell.me any thing that 
could be construed to her disadvantage; for I 
am wearily out of sorts with one Wrayburn who 
ents a sorry figure, and I would far rather be 
out of sorts with somebody else. ‘Eugene, Enu- 
gene, Eugene, this is a bad business.’ Ah! So 
go the Mortimer Lightwood bells, and they sound 
melancholy to-night.” 

Strolling on, he thought of something else to 
take himself to task for. ‘‘ Where is the analo- 
gy, Brute Beast,” he said impatiently, ‘ between 


\ 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


¥irty a : 
301 


‘a woman whom your father coolly finds out for 
you and a woman whom you have found out for 
yourself, and have ever drifted after with more 
and more of constancy since you first set eyes 
upon her? Ass! Can you reason no better 
than that?” 

But again he subsided into a reminiscence of 
his first full knowledge of his power just now, 
and of her disclosure of her heart. ‘To try no 
more to go away, and to try her again, was the 
xeckless conclusion it turned uppermost. And 
yet again, ‘‘ Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, this is a 
bad business!” And, ‘*I wish I could stop the 
Lightwood peal, for it sounds like a knell.” 


Looking above, he found that the young moon | 


was up, and that the stars were beginning to 
shine in the sky from which the tones of red and 


yellow were flickering out, in favor of the calm 
blue of a summer night. He was still by the 
river-side. Turning suddenly, he met a man so 
close upon him that Eugene, surprised, stepped 
back to avoid a collision. The man carried 
something over his shoulder which might have 
been a broken oar, or spar, or bar, and took no 
notice of him, but passed on. 

‘“Halloa, friend!” said Eugene, calling after 
him, ‘¢are you blind?” 

The man made no reply, but went his way. 

Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with 
his hands behind him and his purpose in his 
thoughts. He passed the sheep, and passed the 
gate, and came within hearing of the village 
sounds, and came to the bridge. »The inn where 
he staid, like the village and the Mill, was not 
across the river, but on that side of the stream 
on which he walked. However, knowing the 
rushy bank and the back-water on the other 
side to be a retired place, and feeling out of hu- 
mor for noise or company, he crossed the bridge 
and sauntered on: looking up ar the stars as 
they seemed one by one to be kindled in the 
sky, and looking down at the river as the same 
stars seemed to be kindled deep in the water. 
A landing-place overshadowed by a willow, and 
a pleasure-boat lying moored there among somé 
stakes, caught his eye as he passed along. The 


Se 


spot was in such dark shadow that he paused to _ 


make out what was there, and then passed on 
again. 

The rippling of the river seemed to cause a 
correspondent stir in his uneasy reflections. He 
would have laid them asleep if he could, bat 
they were in movement, like the stream, and all 
tending one way with a strong current. As the 
ripple under the moon broke unexpectedly now 
and then, and palely flashed in a new shape and 
with a new sound, so part of his thoughts start- 
ed, unbidden, from the rest, and revealed their 
wickedness. ‘‘Qut of the question to marry 
her,” said Eugene, ‘¢and out of the question to 
leave her. The crisis !”’ ; 

He had sauntered far enough, Before turn- 
ing to retrace his steps he stopped upon the 
margin to look down at the reflected night. In 
an instant, with a dreadful crash, the reflected 
night turned crooked, flames shot jaggedly across 
the air, and the moon and stars came bursting 
from the sky. 

Was he struck by lightning? With some in- 
coherent, half-formed thought to that effect, he 
turned under the blows that were blinding him 
and mashing his life, and closed with a murder- 


} She had meditated ‘and taken comfort. 


= bank much and newly trodden, where there lay 


“the bank was bloody. 


x 


a ® 


“even through the deep dark shadow, the sculls 
wan a rack against the red-brick garden-wall. 


\ 


‘the quiet of ‘the night. 


’ that the grass was bloody. Following the drops 


302 


er, whom he caught by a red neckerchief—un- 
less the raining down of his own blood gave it 
that hue. 

Eugene was light, active, and expert; but his 
arms were broken, or he was paralyzed, and 
could do no more than hang on to the man, with 
his head swung back, so that he could see ng- 
thing but the heaving sky. After dragging at 
the assailant, he fell on the b@k with him, and 
then there was another great crash, and then a 
splash, and all was done. 

Lizzie Hexam, too, had avoided the noise, and 


“the Saturday movement of people in the strag- 


gling street, and chose to walk alone by the wa- 
ter until her tears should be dry, and she could 
so compose herself as to escape remark upon her 
looking ill or unhappy on going home. The; 
peaceful serenity of the hour and place, having 


no-reproaches or evil intentions within her breast. 


to contend against, sank healingly into its depths. 
She, 
too, was turning homeward when she heard a 
strange sound. 
_ It startled her, for it was like a sound of 
blows. She stood still and listened. It sick- 
ened her, for blows fell heavily and cruelly on 
As she listened, unde- 
cided, all was silent. As she yet listened, she 
heard a faint groan and a fall into the river. 

Her old bold life and habit instantly inspired 
her. Without vain waste of breath in crying 
for help where there were none to hear, she ran 
toward the spot from which the sounds had 
come. It lay between her and the bridge, but 
it was more removed from her than she had 
thought; the night being so very quiet, and 
sound traveling far with the help of water. 

At length she reached a part of the green 


some broken splintered pieces of wood and some 
torn fragments of clothes. Stooping, she saw 


and smears, she saw that the watery margin of 
Following the current 
with her eyes, she saw a bloody face turned up 
toward the moon and drifting away. 

Now merciful Heaven be thanked for that old 
time, and grant, O Blessed Lord, that through 
thy wonderful workings it may turn to good at 
ast! ‘To whomsoever the drifting face belongs, 
be it man’s or woman’s, help my humble hands, 
Lord God, to raise it from death and restore it 
to some one to whom it must be dear! 

It was thought, fervently thonght, but not for 
a moment did the prayer check her. She was 
away before it welled up in her mind, away, 
swift and true, yet steady above all-—for without 
steadiness it could n 
ing-place under the willow-tree, where she also 
had seen the boat lying moored among the 
stakes.. 

A sure touch of her old practiced hand, a sure 
step of her old practiced foot, a sure light bal- 
ance of her body, and she was in the boat. 
quick glance of ler practiced eve showed her, 


Another moment and she had cast off (taking 


_ the line with her), and the boat had shot out 


into the moonlight, and she was rowing down 
the stream as never other woman rowed on En- 
glish water. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


re 


Intently over her shoulder, without slackening 
speed, she looked ahead for the drivi ing face. 
She passed the scene of the struggle—yonder it 
was, on her left, well over th 
passed on her right the end of the village street,. 
a hilly street that almost dipped into the river; 
its sounds were growing faint again, and she 
slackened; looking as the boat drove every 
where, ever y where for the floating face. 

She merely kept the boat before the stream 
now, and rested on her oar s, knowing well that 
if the face were not soon visible it had gone 
down, and she would overshoot it. An un- 
trained sight.would never have seen by the moon- 
light what she saw_at the Jength_ of a few strokes 


enssnr Arenn aenimncs e 


astern. She saw ‘the drowning figure rise to the 
surface, slighfly-struggle, and as if by instinet 
turn over on its back to float. Just so had she 
first dimly seen the face which she now dimly 
saw again. 4- 

Firm of look and firm of purpose, she intent- 
hy watched its coming on, until it was very near 3 
then, with a touch, “anshipped her sculls, and 
crept aft in the boat, between kneeling and 
crouching. Once, she let the body evade her, 
not being sure of her grasp. Twice, and she 
had seized it by its bloody hair. 

It was insensible, if not virtually dead ; it was 
mutilated, and streaked the water all about it 
with dark red streaks. As it could not help it- 
self, it was impossible for her to get it on board, 


e_boat’s stern—she © 


She bent over the stern to secure it with the« 


line, and then the river and its shores rang to 
the terrible ery she uttered. 

But, as if possessed by supernatural spirit poke 
strength, she lashed_it safe, resumed her. sea 
and rowed in, desperately, for the nearest we 
low water w Here she might run the boat aground. 
Desperately, but not wildly, for she knew that 
if she lost distinctness of intention all was lost 
and gone. 

She ran the boat ashore, went into the water, 
released him from the line, and by main strength 
lifted him in her arms and laid him in the bot- 
tom of the boat. He had fearful wounds upon 


him, and she bound them up with her dress torn , 


into strips. Else, supposing him to be still alive, 
she foresaw that he must bleed to death before 
he could be landed at his inn, which was the 
nearest place for succor. 

This done very rapidly, she kissed his disfig- 
ured forehead, looked up in angnish to the stars, 
and blessed him and forgave him, ‘if she had 
any thing to forgive.” It was only in that in- 
stant that she thought of hersclf, and then she 
thonght of herself only for him. 

Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that 
old time, enabling me, without a wasted ngo- 
ment, to have got the boat afloat again, and to 
yew back against the stream! And grant, O 
lessed Lord God, that through poor me he may 
»e raised from death, and preserved to some one 
Ise to whom he may be dear one day, though 
ever dearer than to me! 

She rowed hard—rowed desperately, but nev r 
wildly—and seldom removed her eyes from hii 
in the bottom of the boat. She had so laid him 
there, as that she might see his disfigured face; 
it was so much disfigured that his mother might 
have covered it, but it was above and beyand 
disfigurement in her eyes. 

The boat touched the edge of the patch of i 


ie 
¥ 


{ 


Yi, tgs 


lawn, sloping gently to the water. ‘There were 
‘lights in the windows, but there chanced to be 
no one out of doors. She made the boat fast, 
and again by main strength took him up, and 


~ never laid him down until she laid him down in 


the house. 

Surge6ns were sent for, and she sat support- 
ing his head. . She had oftentimes heard in days 
that were gone how doctors would lift the hand 
of an insensible wounded person, and would 
drop it if the person were dead. She waited 
for the awful moment when the doctors might 
lift this hand, all broken and bruised, and let it 

fall. 

The first of the surgeons came, and asked, 
before proceeding to his examination, ‘‘ Who 
brought him in?” 

‘‘T brought him in, Sir,” answered Lizzie, at 
whom all present looked. 

‘¢You, my dear? You could not lift, far less 
carry, this weight.” 

‘‘T think I could not, at another time, 
but I am sure I did.” 

The surgeon looked at her with great atten- 
tion, and with some compassion. Having with 
a grave face touched the wounds upon the head, 


_. and the broken arms, he took the hand. 


O! would he let it drop? 

He appeared irresolute. He did not retain 
it, but laid it gently down, took a candle, looked 

~more closely at the injuries on the head, and at 
the pupils of the eyes. That done, he replaced 
the candle and took the hand again. Another 
‘surgeon then coming in, the two exchanged a 
whisper, and the second took the hand. Nei- 
ther did he let it fall at once, but kept it for a 
while and laid it gently down. 

‘“ Attend to the poor girl,” said the first sur- 
geon then. ‘*She is quite unconscious. She 
sees nothing and hears nothing. All the better 
for her! Don’t rouse her, if you can help it; 
only move her. Poor girl, poor girl! She must 
be amazingly strong of heart, but it is much to 
be feared that she has set her heart upon the 
dead. Be gentle with her.” 


a 


CHAPTER VII. 
BETTER TO BE ABEL THAN CAIN. 
Day was breaking at Plashwater Weir Mill 


. Lock. Stars were yet visible, but there was dull 


light in the east that was not the light of night. 
The moon had gone down, and a mist crept 
along the banks of the river, seen through which 
the trees were the ghosts of trees, and the water 
wag the ghost of water. This earth looked 
spectral, and so did the pale stars: while the 
cold eastern glare, expressionless as to heat or 
color, with the eye of the firmament quenched, 


might have been likened to the stare of the | 


dead. 

Perhaps it was so likened by the lonely Barge- 
man, standing on the brink of the lock. . For 
-eertain, Bradley Headstone looked that way, 
when a chill air came up, and when it passed 
on murmuring, as if it whispered something that 
made the phantom trees and water tremble—or 
threaten—for fancy might have made it either. 

He turned away, and tried the Lock-house 
door. It was fastened on the inside. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Sir ij 


302 


“*& Is he afraid of me?” he muttered, knocking. 

Rogue Riderhood was soon roused, and soon 
undrew the bolt and let him in. 

‘¢Why, T’otherest, I thought you had been 
and got lost! ‘T'wo nights away! I a’most be- 
lieved as you’d giv’ me the slip, and I had as 
good as half a mind for to advertise you in the 
newspapers to come for’ard.” 

Bradley’s face turned so dark on this hint that 
Riderhood deemed it expedient to soften it into 
a compliment. 

‘‘But not you, governor, not you,” he went 
on, stolidly shaking his head. ‘‘ For what did 
I say to myself arter having amused myself with 
that there stretch of a comic idea, as a sort of a 
playful game? Why, I says to myself, ‘ He’s a 
man o’ honor.’ That’s what J says to myself. 
‘He's a man o’ double honor.’ ” 

Very remarkably, Riderhood put no question 
to him. He had looked at him on opening the 
door, and he now looked at him again (stealthily 
this time), and the result of his looking was, that 
he asked him no question. 

‘¢ You'll be for another forty on’em, governor, 
as I judges, afore you turns your mind to break- 
fast,” said Riderhood, when his visitor sat down, 
resting his chin on his hand, with his eyes on the 
ground. And very remarkably again: Rider 
hood feigned to set the scanty furniture in or- 
der, while he spoke, to have a show of reason for 
not looking at him. 

‘Yes. I had better sleep, I think,” said 
Bradley, without changing his position. 

‘‘T myself should recommend it, governor,” 
assented Riderhood. ‘* Might you be anyways 
dry ?” 

‘©Yes, I should like a drink,” said Bradley; 
but without appearing to attend much. 

Mr. Riderhood got out his bottle, and fetched 
, his jugful of water, and administered a pota- 
‘tion. ‘Then he shook the coverlet of his bed and 
spread it smooth, and Bradley stretched himself 
upon it in the clothes he wore. Mr. Riderhood 
poetically remarking that he would pick the 
bones of his night’s rest, in his wooden chair, sat 
in the window as before; but, as before. watched 
the sleeper narrowly until he was very sound 
asleep. Then he rose and looked at him close, 
in the bright davlight, on every side, with great 
minuteness. He went out to his Lock to sum 
up what he had seen, 

‘¢One of his sleeves is tore right away below 
the elber, and the t’other’s had a good rip at the 
shoulder. He’s been hung on to, pretty tight, - 
for. his shirt’s all tore out of the neck gathers. 
He’s been in the grass, and he’s been in the wa- 
ter. And he’s spotted, and I know with what, 
and with whose. Hooroar!” 

Bradley slept long. Early in the afternoon a 
barge came down. Other barges had passed 
through, both ways, before it; but the Lock- 
keeper hailed only this particular barge for 
news, as if he had made a time calculation with 
some nicety. The men on board told him a 
piece of news, and there was a lingering on 
their part to enlarge upon it. 

T\velve hours had intervened since Bradley’s 
lying down, when he got up. | ‘‘ Not that I swal- 
ler it,” said Riderhood, squinting at his Lock, 
when he saw Bradley coming out of the house, 
‘Sas you've been a sleeping all the time, old 
boy {37 


304 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Bradley came to him, sitting on his wooden | a hitch of his head, as if-he disdainfully jerked 


lever, and asked what o’clock it was? Rider- 
hood told him it was between two and three. 

** When are you relieved ?” asked Bradley. 

** Day arter to-morrow, governor.” 

‘* Not sooner ?” 

** Not a inch sooner, governor.” 

On both sides importance seemed attached to 
this question of relief. Riderhood quite petted 
his reply ; saying a second time, and prolonging 
a negative roll of his head, ‘‘n—n—not a inch 
sooner, governor.” 

*‘Did I tell you I was going on to-night 2” 
asked Bradley. 

*“‘No, governor,” returned Riderhood, in a 
cheerful, affable, and conversational manner, 
“you did not tell me so. But most like you 
meant to it and forgot to it. How, otherways, 
could a doubt have come into your head about 
it, governor ?” 

** As the sun 
said Bradley. 

**So much the more necessairy is a Peck,” 
returned Riderhood. ‘‘Come in and have it, 
T’otherest.”’ 

The formality of spreading a tablecloth not 
being observed in Mr. Riderhood’s establishment, 
the serving of the ‘‘peck” was the affair of a 
moment; it merely consisting in the handing 
down of a capacious baking dish with three- 
fourths of an immense meat pie in it, and the 
production of two pocket-knives, an earthenware 
mug, and a large brown bottle of beer, 

Both ate and drank, but Riderhood much the 
more abundantly. In lieu of plates, that honest 
man cut two triangular pieces from the thick 
erust of the pie, and laid them, inside upper- 
most, upon the table: the one before himself, 
and the other before his guest. Upon these 
platters he placed two goodly portions of the 
contents of the pie, thus imparting the unusual 
interest to the entertainment that each partaker 
scooped out the inside of his plate, and consumed 
it with his other fare, besides having the sport 
of pursuing the clots of congealed gravy over the 
plain of the table, and successfully taking them 
into his mouth at last from the blade, of his 
knife, in case of their not first sliding off it. 

Bradley Headstone was so remarkably awk- 
ward at these exercises that the Rogue observed 
it. 

‘Look out, T’otherest!” he cried, 
cut your hand!” 

But the caution came too late, for Bradley 
gashed it at the instant. And, what was more 
unlucky, in asking Riderhood to tie it up, and 
in standing close to him for the purpose, he 
shook his hand under the smart of the wound, 
and shook blood over Riderhood’s dress. 

When dinner was done, and when what re- 
mained of the platters, and what remained of 
the congealed gravy had been put back into 
what remained of the pie, which served as an 
economical investment for all miscellaneous sav- 
ings, Riderhood filled the mug with beer. and 
took a long drink. And now he did look at 
Bradley, and with an evil eye. 

**'T’otherest !” he said, hoarsely, as he bent 
across the table to touch his arm. ‘‘ The news 
has gone down the river afore you.” 

** What news ?”’ 

“*Who do you think,” 


goes down I intend to go on,” 


“ you'll 


the feint away, ‘‘picked up the body? Guess.” 

“‘T am not good at guessing any thing.” 

**She did. Hooroar ! 
agin. She did.” 

The convulsive twitching of Bradley Head- 
stone’s face, and the sudden hot humor that 
broke out upon it, showed how grimly the intel- 
ligence touched him. But he said not a single 
word, good or bad. He only smiled in a lower- 


You had him there 


ing manner, and got up and stood leaning at the - 


window, looking through it. Riderhood follow- 
ed him with his eyes. Riderhood cast down his 
eyes on his own besprinkled clothes. Riderhood 
began to have an air of being better at a guess 
than Bradley owned to being. 

‘“‘T have been so long in want of rest,” said 
the schoolmaster, ‘‘ that with your leave I’ll lie 
down again.” 

‘* And welcome, T’otherest !” was the hospita- 
ble answer of his host. He had laid himself 
down without waiting for it, and he remained 
upon the bed until the sun was low. When he 


arose and came out to resume his journey he © 


found his host waiting for him on the grass by 
the towing-path outside the door. 

‘‘ Whenever it may be necessary that you and 
I should have any further communication to- 
gether,” said Bradley, ‘‘I willcome back. Good- 
night!” 

‘* Well, since no better can be,” said Rider- 
hood, turning on his heel, ‘‘Good-night!”” But 
he turned again as the other set forth, and added 
under his breath, looking after him with a leer: 
‘“You wouldn’t be let to go like that if my Re- 
lief warn’t as good as come. I'll catch you up 
in a mile.” 

In a word, his real time of relief being that 
evening at sunset, his mate came lounging in 
within a quarter of an hour. Not staying to fill 
up the utmost margin of his time, but borrowing 
an hour or so, to be repaid again when he should 
relieve his reliever, Riderhood. straightway fol- 
lowed on the track of Bradley Headstone. 

He was a better follower than Bradley. It 
had been the calling of his life to slink and skulk 
and dog and waylay, and he knew his calling 
well. He effected such a forced march on lea 


'ing the Lock House that he was. close up with 


him—that is to say, as close up with him as he 
deemed it convenient to be—before another Lock 
was passed. His man looked back pretty often 
as he went, but got no hint of him. He knew 
how to take advantage of the ground, and where 


to put the hedge between them, and where the 


wall, and when to duck, and when to drop, and 
had a thousand arts beyond the doomed Brad- 
lev’s slow conception. 

But all his arts were brought to a stand-still, 


wo 


like himself, when Bradley, turning into a green | 


lane or riding by the river-side—a solitary spot 
run wild in nettles, briers, and brambles, and 
encumbered with the scathed trunks of a whole 
hedgerow of felled trees, on the outskirts of a 
little wood—began stepping on these trunks and 
dropping down among them and stepping on 
them again, apparently as a school-boy might 
have done, but assuredly with no school-boy pur« 
pose, or want of purpose. 

‘What are you up to?” muttered-Riderhood, 
down in the ditch, and holding the hedge a lit- 


% 


said Riderhood, with | tle open with both hands. And soon his actions — 


‘ig 


game!’ said Riderhood. 


-With you, now. 


made a most extraordinary reply. ‘‘ By George 
and the Draggin !” cried Riderhood, ‘‘if he ain’t 
a-going.to bathe !” 

He had passed back, on and among the trunks 
of trees again, and had passed on to the water- 
side and had begun undressing on the grass. 
For a moment it had a suspicious look of suicide, 
arranged to counterfeit accident. ‘* But you 
wouldn’t have fetched a bundle under your arm, 
from among that timber, if-such was your 
Nevertheless it was a 
relief to him when the bather after a plunge and 
a few strokes came out. ‘‘ For I shouldn't,” he 
said in a feeling manner, ‘‘have liked to lose 
you till I had made more money out of you 
neither.”’ 

Prone in another ditch (he had changed his 
ditch as his man had changed his position), and 
holding apart so small a patch of the hedge that 
the sharpest eyes could not have detected him, 
Rogue Riderhood watched the bather dressing. 
And now gradually came the wonder that he 
stood up, completely clothed, another man, and 
not the Bargeman. 

‘¢ Aha!” said Riderhood. 
dressed that night. I see. 
Yow re deep. 


‘Much as you was 
You're a taking me 
But I knows a 
deeper.” 

When the bather had finished dressing he 
kneeled on the grass, doing something with his 
hands, and again stood up with his bundle un- 
der his arm. Looking all around him with great 
attention, he then went to the river’s edge, and 
flung it in as far, and yet as lightly as he could. 
It was not until he was so decidedly upon his 
way again as to be beyond a bend of the river, 
and for the time out of view, that Riderhood 
scrambled from the ditch.’ 

‘‘ Now,” was his debate with himself, “ shall 
I foller you on, or shall I let you loose for this 
once, and go a fishing?” ‘The debate continu- 
ing, he followed, as a precautio@uy measure in 
any case, and got him again in sight. “If I 
was to let you loose this once,” said Riderhood 
then, still following, “I could make you come 
to me agin, or I could find you ont in one way 
or another. If I wasn’t to go a fishing others 
might. I’ll let you loose this once and go a 
fishing!’ With that, he suddenly dropped the 
pursuit and tarned. 

The miserable man whom he had released for 
the time, but not for long, went on toward Lon- 
don. Bradley was suspicious of every sound he 


heard, and of every face he saw, but was under 


a spell which very commonly falls upon the shed- 
der of blood, and had no suspicion of the real 
danger that lurked in his life, and would have 
it yet. Riderhood was much _in his thonghts— 
had never been out of his thoughts since the 
night-adventure of their first meeting; but Ri- 
derhood occupied a very different place there from 


the place of pursuer; and Bradley had been at 


#he pains of devising so many means of, fitting 
that place to him, and of wedging him into it, 
that higinind could not compass the possibility 
And this is another 


aS Sto nee 


them, a 


open. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


305 


Now, too, was he cursed with a state of mind 
more wearing and more wearisome than remorse. 
He had no remorse; but the evil-doer who can 
hold that avenger at bay can not escape the slow- 
er torture of incessantly doing the evil deed again 
and doing it more efficiently. In the defensive 
declarations and pretended confessions of mur- 
derers, the pursuing shadow of this torture may 
be traced through every lie they tell. If I had 
done it as alleged, is it conceivable that I would 
have made this and this mistake? If [ had done 
fit as alleged, should I have left that unguarded 
place which that false and wicked witness against 
me so infamously deposed to? The state of that 
wretch who continually finds the weak spots in 
his own crime, and strives to strengthen them 
when it is unchangeable, is a state that aggra- 
vates the offense by doing the deed a thousand 
times instead of once; but it is a state, too, that 
tauntingly visits the offense upon a sullen unre- 
pentant nature with its heaviest punishment ev- 
ery time. 

Bradley toiled on, chained heavily to the idea 
of his hatred and his vengeance, and thinking 
how he might have satiated both in many better 
ways than the way he had taken. The instru- 
ment might have been better, the spot and the 
hour might have been better chosen. ‘To batter 
a man down from behind in the dark, on the 
brink of a river, was well enough, but he ought 
to have been instantly disabled, whereas he had 
turned and seized his assailant; and so, to end 
it before chance-help came, and to be rid of him, 
he had been hurriedly thrown backward into the 
river before the life was fully beaten out of him. 
Now if it could be done again, it must not be so 
done. Supposing his head had been held down 
under water for a while. Supposing the first 
blow had been trner. Supposing he had been 
shot. Supposing he had been strangled. Sup- 
pose this way, that way, the other way. Sup- 
pose any thing but getting unchained from the 
one idea, for that was inexorably impossible. 

The school reopened next day. The scholars 
saw little or no change in their master’s face, for 
it always wore its slowly laboring expression. 
But as he heard his classes he was always do- 
ing the deed and doing it better. As he paused 
with his piece of chalk at the blackboard before 
writing on it he was thinking of the spot, and 
whether the water was not deeper and the fall 
straighter, a little higher up, or a little lower 
down. 
two upon the board, and show himself what he 
meant. He was doing it again and improving 
on the manner, at prayers, in his mental arith- 
metic, all through his questioning, all through 
the day. 

Charley Hexam was a master now, in another 
school, under another head. It was evening, 
and Bradley was walking in his garden, observed 
from behind a blind by gentle little Miss Peech- 
er, who contemplated offering him a loan of her 
smelling-salts for headache, when Mary Anne, 
in faithful attendance, held up her arm. 

.*¢ Yes, Mary Anne?” 

‘Young Mr. Hexam, if you please, ma’am, 
coming to see Mr. Headstone.” 

‘Very good, Mary Anne.” 

Again Mary Anne held up her arm. 

‘¢You may speak, Mary Anne?” 

‘‘Mr. Headstone has beckoned young Mr. 


He had half a mind to draw a line or, 


é 


s 


306 


Hexam into his house, ma’am, and he has gone 
in himself without waiting for young Mr. Hex- 
am to come up, and now fe has gone in too, 
ma’am, and has shut the door.” 

‘¢ With all my heart, Mary Anne.” — 

And Mary Anne’s telegraphic arm worked. 

‘“What more, Mary Anne ?”’ 

‘¢They must find it rather dull and dark, Miss 
Peecher, for the parlor blind’s down, and neither 
of them pulls it up.” 

‘There is no accounting,” said good Miss 
Peecher, with a little sad sigh which she re- 
pressed by laying her hand on her neat method- 
ical bodice, “ there is no accounting for tastes, 
Mary Anne.” 

Charley, entering the dark room, stopped short 
when he saw his old friend in its yellow shade. 

‘*Come in, Hexam, come in.” 

Charley advanced to take the hand that was 
held out to him; but stopped again, short of it. 
The heavy, bloodshot eyes of the schoolmaster, 
rising to his face with an effort, met his look of 
scrutiny.” 

‘¢ Mr. Headstone, what’s the matter ?” 

‘*Matter? Where?” 

‘“‘Mr. Headstone, have you heard the news ? 
This news about the fellow, Mr. Eugene Wray- 
burn? That he is killed ?” 

“‘TTe is dead, then !” exclaimed Bradlev 

Young Hexam standing looking at him, he 
moistened his lips with his tongue, looked about 
the room, glanced at his former pupil, and looked 
down. ‘‘I heard of the outrage,” said Bradley, 
trying to constrain his working mouth, ‘ but I 
had not heard the end of it.” 

‘Where were you,” said the boy, advancing 
a step as he lowered his voice, ‘‘ when it was 
done? Stop! I don’t ask that. Don’t tell me. 
If you force your confidence upon me, Mr. Head. 
stone, I'll give up every word of it. Mind! 
Take notice. Tl give up it, and I'll give up 
you. I will!” 

The wretched creature seemed to suffer acute- 
ly under this renunciation. A desolate air of 
utter and complete loneliness fell upon him, like 
a visible shade. 

‘*Tt's for me to speak, not you,” said the boy. 
** Tf you do, you'll do it at your peril. Iam go- 
ing to put your selfishness before you, Mr. Head- 
stone—vour passionate, violent, and ungovern- 
able selfishness—to show you why I can, and 
why I will, have nothing more to do with you.” 

He looked at young Hexam as if he were 
waiting for a scholar to go on with a lesson that 
he knew by heart and was deadly tired of. But 
he had said his last word to him. 

“If you had any part—I don’t say what—in 
_ this attack,” pursued the boy ; ‘‘or if you knew 
any thing about it—I don’t say how much—or 
if you know who did it—I go no closer—vou did 
an injury to me that’s never to be forgiven. 
You know that I took you with me to his cham- 
bers in the Temple when I told him my opin- 
ion of him, and made myself responsible for my 
opinion of you. You know that I took you with 
me when I was watching him with a view to 
recovering my sister and bringing her to her 
senses; you know that I have allowed myself to 
be mixed up with you, all through this business, 
in favoring your desire to marry my sister. And 

ow do you know that, pursuing the ends of 
your own violent temper, you have not laid me 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


open to suspicion?’ Is that your gratitude to 
me, Mr. Headstone?” ~~ 

Bradley sat looking steadily before him at the 
vacant air, As often as young Hexam stopped 
he turned his eyes toward him, as if he were 
waiting for him to go on with the lesson, and 
get it done, As often as the boy resumed 
Bradley resumed his fixed face. 

“Tam going to be plain with you, Mr. Head- 
stone,” said young Hexam, shaking his head in 
a half-threatening manner, ‘‘ because this is no 
time for affecting not to know things that I do 
know—except certain things at which it might 
not be very safe for you to hint again. What I 
mean is this: if you were a good master, I was 
a good pupil. I have done you plenty of credit, 
and in improving my own reputation I have im- 
proved yours quite as much. Very well then. 
Starting on equal terms, I want to put before 
you how you have shown your gratitude to me 
for doing all I could to further your wishes with 
reference to my sister. You have compromised 
me by being seen about with me, endeavoring to 
counteract this Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, | That’s 
the first thing you have done. If my character, 
and my now dropping you, help me out of that, 
Mr. Headstone, the deliverance is to be attribu- 
ted to me and not to you. No thanks to you 
for it!” 


The boy stopping again, he moved his eyes 


again. 


‘‘T am going on, Mr. Headstone, don’t you | 


be afraid. I am going on to the end, and I 
have told you beforehand what the end is. 
Now, you know my story. You are as well 
aware as I am, that I have had many disad- 
vantages to leave behind me in life.. You have 
heard me mention my father, and you are suffi- 
ciently acquainted with the fact that the home 
from which I, as I may say, escaped, might 
have been a more creditable one than it was, 
My father died, and then it might have been 
supposed that my way to respectability was 
pretty clear, No. For then my sister be- 
gins.” 

He spoke as.confidently, and with as entire 
an absence of any tell-tale color in his cheek, 
as if there were no softening old time behind 
him. Not wonderful, for there was none in his 
hollow empty heart. What is there but self, 
for selfishness to see behind it ? 


‘¢ When I speak of my sister I devoutly wish - 


that you had never seen her, Mr. Headstone. 
However, you did see her, and that’s uselegs 
now. I confided in you abouther. I kplan 
her character to you, and how she interposed 
some ridiculous fanciful notions in the way of 
our being as respectable as I tried for. You fell 
in Jove with her, and I favored you with all my 
might. She could not be induced to favor you, 
and so we came into collision with this Mr. Eu- 
gcene Wrayburn. Now, what have you done? 
Why, von have justified my sister in being firm- 
ly set against vou from first to last, and you 
have put me in the wrong again! And why 
have you done it? Because, Mr. 
you are in all your passions so selfish, and so 
concentrated upon yourself, that you have not 
bestowed one proper thonght on me.’ 


_ The cool conviction with which the boy took — 
up and held his position could have been derived if 


from no other vice in human nature. 


Headstone, 


307 


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308 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


small reparation, I hope you will think how re- 
spectable you might have been yourself, and 
will contemplate your blighted existence.” 

Was it strange that the wretched man should 
take this heavily to heart? Perhaps he. had 
taken the boy to heart, first, through some long 
he eal years; perhaps through the same years 
‘he had found his drudgery lightened by commu- 
nication with a brighter and more apprehensive 
spirit than his own; perhaps a family resem- 
blance of face and voice between the boy and his 
sister, smote him hard in the gloom of lis fallen 
state. For whichsoever reason, or for all, he 
drooped his devoted head when the boy was 
gone, and shrank together on the floor, and 
groveled there, with the palms of his hands 
tight-clasping his hot temples, in unutterable 
misery, and unrelieved by a single tear. 


Rogue Riderhood had been busy with the 
river that day. He had fished with assiduity on 
the previous evening, but the light was short, 
and he had fished unsuccessfully. He had 
fished again that day with better luck, and had 
carried his fish home to Plashwater Weir Mill 
Lock-house in a bundle. 


ee Ree 


CHAPTER. VIII. 
A FEW GRAINS OF PEPPER. 


Tue dolls’ dress-maker went no more to the 
business-premises of Pubsey and Co, in St. Mary 
Axe, after chance had disclosed to her (as she 
supposed) the flinty and hypocritical charac- 
ter of Mr. Riah. She often moralized over her 
work on the tricks and the manners of that ven- 
erable cheat, but made her little purchases else- 
‘ where, .and lived a secluded life. After much 
consultation with herself, she decided not to put 
Lizzie Hexam on her guard against the old man, 
arguing that the disappointment of finding him 
out would come upon her quite soon enough. 
Therefore, in her communication with her friend 
by letter, she was silent on this theme, and prin- 
cipally dilated on the backslidings of her bad 
child, who every day grew worse and worse. 

‘*You wicked old boy,” Miss Wren would say 
to him, with a menacing forefinger, “you'll 
force me to run away from you, after all, you 
will; and then you'll shake to bits, and there'll 
be nobody to pick up the pieces !” 

At this foreshadowing of a desolate decease 
the wicked old bov would whine and whimper, 
and would sit shaking himself into the lowest of 
low spirits, until such time as he could shake 
himself out of the house and shake another 
threepennyworth into himself. But dead drunk 
or dead sober (he had come to such a pass that 
he was least alive in the latter state), it was al- 
ways on the conscience of the paralytic scare- 
crow that he had betrayed his sharp parent for 
sixty threepennyworths of rum, which were all 
gone, and that her sharpness would infallibly 
detect his having done it, sooner or later. All 
things considered therefore, and addition made 
of the state of his body to the state of his mind, 
the bed on which Mr. Dolls reposed was a bed 
of roses from which the flowers and leaves had 
entirely faded, leaving him to lie upon the thorns 
and stalks. 


> Noa b at tes VS res, AE Nees Bt odek ae ye 
ices Kens Sd, omit Ae 


On a certain day Miss Wren was alone at her 
work, with the house-door set open for coolness, 
and was trolling in a small sweet voice a mourn- r. 
ful little song which might have been the song q 
of the doll she was dressing, bemoaning the 
brittleness and meltability of wax, when whom 
should she descry standing on the pavement, — 
looking in at her, but Mr. Fledgeby. é 

‘*T thought it was you?” said Fledgeby, com- 
ing up the two steps. 

‘*Did you?’ Miss Wren retorted. ‘‘ And I 
thought it was you, young man, Quite a coin- 
cidence. Youre not mistaken, and I’m not 
mistaken. How clever we are!” a 

“Well, and how are you ?”’ said Fledgeby. a 

‘‘T am pretty much as usual, Sir,” replied © 
Miss Wren. . “SA very unfortunate parent, wor- | 
ried out of my life and senses by a very bad 
child.’ 

Fledgeby’s small eyes opened so wide that they — 
might have passed for ordinary-sized eyes, as he — 
stared about him for the very young person w hom 
he supposed to be in question. 

‘¢But you’re not a parent,” said Miss Wren, 
‘Cand consequently it’s of no use talking to you 
upon a family subject.—To what am [I to attrib- 
ute the honor and favor ?” 

‘¢To a wish to improve your acquaintance,” 
Mr. Fledgeby replied. 

Miss Wren, stopping to bite her thread, looked 
at him very knowingly. 

‘We never meet now,” said Fledgeby; ‘‘do 
we ?” 

‘*No,” said Miss Wren, chopping off the 
word. 

‘*So I had a mind,” pursned Fledgeby, ‘‘to 
come and have a talk with you about our dodg- 
ing friend, the child of Israel.’ 

rz So he gave you my address; did he?” asked 
Miss Wren. a 

““T got it out of him,” said Fledgeby, with a 
stammer. 

‘You seem to see a good deal of him,” re- 
marked Miss Wren, with shrewd distrust. ‘*A 
good deal of him you seem to see, considering.” 

‘“‘Yes, Ido,” said Fledgeby. ‘*Considering,” 

‘¢Haven’t you,” inquired the dress-maker, 
bending over the doll on which her art was be- 
ing exercised, ‘‘ done interceding with him yet ?” 

‘*No,” said Fledgeby, shaking his head. 

‘*La! Been interceding with him. all this 
time, and sticking to him still?” said Miss 
Wren, busy with her work. 

“Sticking to him is the word,” said Fledgeby. _ 

Miss Wren pursued her occupation with a_ 
concentrated air, and asked, after an interval of — 
silent industry : 

‘¢ Are you in, the army ?” 

‘* Not exactly,” said Fledgeby, rather flattered 
by the question. ee 
** Navy ?” asked Miss Wren. 
‘*N—no,” said Fledgeby. He qualified these 
two negatives as if he were not absolutely im 

either service, but was almost in both. 

‘* What are you then ?” demanded Miss Wren, 

‘*T am a gentleman, I am,” said Fledgeby. 

‘*Oh!” assented Jenny, screwing up her — 
mouth with an appearance of conviction. ‘‘ Yes, e 
to be sure! That accounts for your having so ~ 
much time to give to interceding. But only t to bs 
think how kind and SeaAY. a / gentleman rons o 
must be !” 


fy 2 


_He must have some object. 


Mr. Fledgeby found that he was skating round 


ie a board marked Dangerous, and had better cut 
out a fresh track. 
_erest of the dodgers,” said he. 


‘* Let’s get back to the dodg- 
‘*What’s he up 
to in the case of your friend the handsome gal? 
What’s his object ?”’ 
‘¢Can not undertake to say, Sir, I am sure!” 
returned Miss Wren, composedly. 

“‘He won't acknowledge where she’s: gone,” 
said Fledgeby; ‘and I’ have a fancy that I 
should like to have another look at her. Now 


I know he knows where she is gone.” 


‘Can not undertake to say, Sir, I am sure!” 
Miss Wren again rejoined. 
“And you know where she is gone,” hazard- 


ed Fledgeby. 


~ “Can not undertake to say, Sir, really,” re- 


plied Miss Wren. 


The quaint little chin met Mr. Fledgeby’s gaze 
with such a bafiling hitch that that agreeable 
gentleman was for some time at a loss how to 
resume his fascinating part in the dialogue. At 


length he said: 


ad 


‘¢ Miss Jenny !—That’s your name, if I don’t 
mistake ?” 

‘*¢ Probably you don’t mistake, Sir,” was Miss 
Wren’s cool answer; ‘‘ because you had it on the 
best authority. Mine, yon know.” 

“Miss Jenny! Instead of coming up and 
being dead, let’s come out and look alive. It’ 
pay better, I assure you,” said Fledgeby, be- 
stowing an inveigling twinkle or two upon the 
dress-maker. ‘* You'll find it pay better.” 

‘* Perhaps,” said Miss Jenny, holding out her 
doll at arm’s-length, and critically contemplat- 
ing the effect of her art with her scissors on her 
lips and her head thrown back, as if her interest 
lay there, and not in the conversation; ‘* per- 


‘haps you'll explain your meaning, young man, 


which is Greek to me.—You must have another 
touch of blue in your trimming, my dear.” Hav- 
ing addressed the last remark to her fair client, 
Miss Wren proceeded to snip at some blue frag- 
ments that lay before her among fragments of 
all colors, and to thread a needle from a skein 
of blue silk. 

~** Took here,” said Fledgeby.—‘‘ Are you at- 
tending ?” 

‘“T am attending, Sir,’ replied Miss Wren, 
without the slightest appearance of so doing. 

*¢ Another touch of blue in your trimming, my 
dear.”’ 

“Well, look here,” said Fledgeby, rather dis- 
couraged by the circumstances under which he 
found himself pursuing the conversation. ‘‘If 
you're attending—” pa), 3 

(‘‘Light blue, my sweet young lady,” remark- 
ed Miss Wren, in a sprightly tone, ‘‘ being best 


suited to your fair complexion and your flaxen } 


curls.””) 

~ “Tsay, if you're attending,” proceeded Fledge- 
by, ‘‘it’ll pay better in this way. It'll lead in a 
roundabout manner to your buying damage and 


waste of Pubsey and Co. at a nominal price, or 


even getting it for nothing.” . 
~ Aha!” thought the dress-emaker. ‘‘ But you 
are not so roundabout, Little Eyes, that I don’t 


notice your answering for Pubsey and Co. after 


all! Little Eyes, Little Eyes, you're too cun- 


ning by half.” | 


“ And I take it for granted,” pursued Fledge- 
by, “that to get the most of your materials for 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


ts 


309 


nothing would be well worth your while, Miss 
Jenny ?” 

‘¢You may take it for granted,” returned the 
dress-maker with many knowing nods, ‘‘that it’s 
always well worth my while to make money.” 

‘* Now,” said Fledgeby, approvingly, ‘‘ you're 
answering to a sensible purpose. Now, you're 
coming out and looking alive! So I make so 
free, Miss Jenny, as to offer the remark, that 
you and Judah were too thick together to last. 
You can’t come to be intimate with such a deep 
file as Judah without beginning to see a little way 
into him, you know,” said Fledgeby, with a wink 

‘*T must own,” returned the dress-maker, with 
her eyes upon her work, ‘‘ that we are not good 
friends at present.” 

‘*T know you're not good friends at present,” 
said Fledgeby. ‘‘I know all about it. I should 
like to pay off Judah by not letting him have 
his own deep way in every thing. In most 
things he’ll get it by hook or by crook, but— 
hang it all!—don’t let him have his own deep 
way in every thing. That’s too much.” Mr. 
Fledgeby said this with someedisplay of indig- 
nant warmth, as if he was counsel in the cause 
for Virtue. 

‘How can I prevent his having his own way ?” 
began the dress-maker. 

“Deep way, I called it,” said Fledgeby. 

_“__Fis own deep way, in any thing?” 
; “Tl tell you,” said Fledgeby. ‘I like to 
hear you ask it, because it’s looking alive. It’s 
what I should expect to find in one of your saga- 
cious tinderstanding. Now, candidly.” 

‘¢Eh ?” cried Miss Jenny. 

‘‘T said, now candidly,” Mr. Fledgeby ex- 
plained, a little put out. 

**Oh-h'!” 

‘“T should be glad to countermine him re- 
specting the handsome gal, your friend. He 
means something there. You may depend upon 
it, Judah means something there. He has a 
motive, and of course his motive is a dark mo- 
tive. Now, whatever his motive is, it’s neces~ 
sary to his motive”—Mr. Fledgeby’s constructive 
powers were not equal to the avoidance of some 
tautology here—‘‘that it should be kept from 
me what he has done with her. Sol put it to 
you, who know: What has he done with her? 
Task nomore. And is that asking much, when 
you understand that it will pay?” 

Miss Jenny Wren, who had cast her eyes upon * 
the bench again after her last interruption, sat 
looking at it, needle in hand but not working, 
for some moments. She then briskly resumed 
her work,and said, with a sidelong glance of her 
eyes and chin at Mr. Fledgeby, 

‘¢ Where d’ye live?” 

‘‘ Albany, Piccadilly,” replied Fledgeby. » 

‘¢When are you at home?” 

“When you like.” 

‘‘Breakfast-time ?” said Jenny, in her abrupt- 
est and shortest manner. 

‘¢No better time in the day,” said Fledgeby. 

“¢T’ll look in upon you to-morrow, young man. 
Those two ladies,” pointing to dolls, ‘“‘have an 
appointment in Bond Street at ten precisely. - 
When I’ve dropped ’em there I'll drive round to 
you.” With a weird little laugh Miss Jenny 
pointed to her crutch-stick as her equipages 

‘‘ This is looking alive indeed!” cried Fledge: 
by, rising. 


310 


‘‘Mark you! I promise you nothing,” said 
the dolls’ dress-maker, dabbing two dabs at him 
with her needle, as if she put out both his eyes. 

‘‘No, no. J understand,” returned Fledge- 
by. ‘*The damage and waste question shall be 
settled first. It shall be made to pay; don’t 

you be afraid. Good-day, Miss Jenny.” 

“‘Good-day, young man.” 

Mr. Fledgeby’s prepossessing form withdrew 
‘itself; and the little dress-maker, clipping and 
snipping and stitching, and stitching and snip- 
ping and clipping, fell to work at a great rate; 
musing and muttering all the time. 

‘‘Misty, misty, misty. Can’t make it out. 
Little Eyes and the wolf in a conspiracy? Or 
Little Eyes and the wolf against one another? 
Can’t make it out. My poor Lizzie, have they 
both designs against you, either way? Can’t 
make it out. Is Little Eyes Pubsey, and the 
wolf Co? Can’t make it out. Pubsey true to 
Co, and Co to Pubsey? Pubsey false to Co, and 
Co to Pubsey? Can’t make it out. What said 
Little Eyes? ‘Now, candidly?’ Ah! How- 
ever the cat jumps, he’s a liar. That's all I can 

make out at present; but you may go to bed in 
the Albany, Piccadilly, with that for your pillow, 
young man!”’ Thereupon the little dress-maker 
again dabbed out his eyes separately, and mak- 
ing a loop in the air of her thread and deftly 
catching it into a knot with her needle, seemed 
to bowstring him into the bargain. 

For the terrors undergone by Mr. Dolls that 
evening when his little parent sat profoundly 
meditating over her work, and when he imag- 
ined himself found out, as often as she changed 
her attitude, or turned her eyes toward him, 
there is no adequate name. Moreover it was 
her habit to shake her head at that wretched old 
boy whenever she caught his eye as he shivered 
and shook. What are popularly called ‘‘the 
trembles” being in full force upon him that even- 
ing, and likewise what are popularly called ‘‘ the 
horrors,” he had a very bad time of it; which 
was not made better by his being so remorseful 
as frequently to moan ‘‘ Sixty threepenn’orths.” 
This imperfect sentence not being at all intelli- 
gible as a confession, but sounding like a Gar- 
gantuan order for a dram, brought him into new 
difficulties by occasioning his parent to pounce 
at him in a more than usually snappish manner, 
and to overwhelm him with bitter reproaches. 

What was a bad time for Mr. Dolls could not 
fail to be a bad time for the dolls’ dress-maker. 
However, she was on the alert next morning, 
and drove to Bond Street, and set down the two 
ladies punctually, and then directed her equipage 
to conduct her to the Albany. Arrived at the 
doorway of the house in which Mr. Fledgeby’s 
chambers were, she found a lady standing there 
ina traveling dress, holding in her hand—of all 
things in the world—a gentleman’s hat. 

‘““You want some one?” said the lady in a 
stern manner, 

‘“‘T am going up stairs to Mr. Fledgeby’s.” 

“You can not do that atthis moment. ‘There 
is a gentleman with him. I am waiting for the 
gentleman. His business with Mr. Fledgeby 
will very soon be transacted, and then you can 
go up. Until the gentleman comes down, you 
must wait here.” 

While speaking, and nvuorwiid: the lady kept 
watchfully between her and the staircase, as if 


” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


prepared to oppose her going up’ by force. ‘The 
lady being of a stature to stop her with a hand, 
and looking mightily determined,: the dress: 
maker stood still. 

- ¢©Well? Why do you listen?” asked the 
lad \ 
aT am not listening,” said the dress-maker. 

‘¢ What do you hear?” asked the lady, alter- 
ing her phrase. 

“Ts it a kind of a spluttering somewhere ?” 
said the dress-maker, with an inquiring look. 

‘¢Mr. Fledgeby in his shower-bath, perhaps,” 
remarked the lady, smiling. 


‘* And somebody’ s beating a carpet, I think ?” 


*¢ Mr. Fledgeby’s carpet, I dare say,’ 
the smiling lady. - 
Miss Wren: had a reasonably good eye for 


’ replied — 


smiles, being well accustomed to them on the — 


part of her young friends, though their smiles 
mostly ran smaller than in nature. But she 
had never seen so singular a smile as that upon 
this lady’s face, It ‘twitched her nostrils open 
in a remarkable manner, and contracted her lips 
and eyebrows. It was a smile of enjoyment too, 
though of such a fierce kind that Miss Wren 
thought she would rather not enjoy herself than 
do it in that way. ; 

‘¢ Well!” said the lady, watching her. ‘ What 
now ?” 

‘‘T hope there’s nothing the matter!” said the 
dress-maker. 

‘‘Where ?” inquired the Jady. 

‘<T don’t know where,” said Miss Wren, star- 
ing about her. ‘‘ But I never heard such odd 
noises. Don’t you think I had better call some- 
body ?” 

‘“‘T think you had better not,’ returned the 
lady with a significant frown, and drawing 
closer. 


On this hint the dress-maker relinquished the — 


idea, and stood looking at the lady as hard as 
the lady looked at her. Meanwhile the dress- 
maker listened with amazement to the odd noises 
which still continued, and the lady listened too, 


but with a coolness in which there was no trace — 


of amazement. 
Soon afterward came a slamming and bang- 
ing of doors; and then came running down stairs 


. . ii 
a gentleman with whiskers, and out of breathy 


who seemed to be red-hot. 
“Is your business done, Alfred?” inquired, 
the lady. 


‘Very thoroughly done,” replied the gentle-— 


man, as he took “his hat from her. 

“You can go up to Mr. Fledgeby as soon as 
you like,” said the lady, moving haughtily away. — 

“Oh! 
of stick with you,” added the gentleman politely, — 
‘Cand say, if you please, that they come from 
Mr, 
leaving England. 


Mr. Alfred Lammle. 


good as not to forget the name.’ 


The three pieces of stick were three brokeull i 
and frayed fragments of a stout lithe cane. 
Jenny taking them wonderingly, and the gentle. 
man repeating witha grin, ** Mr. Alfred Lammle, 
if you'll be so good. Compliments, on leaving 
England,” the lady and gentleman walked away 
quite deliberately, and Miss Jenny and her 
crutch-stick went up stairs. 
mle, Lammle?” Miss Jenny repeated as she 
panted from stair to stair, ‘‘ where have I heard 


fi 


And you can take these three pieces — 


Alfred Lammle, with his compliments on _ 
Be 80 


Miss 


| 


‘¢Lammle, Lam- | 


f 


Lana 
j 

en! 

4 


A 
iu 
oe a 


7 


at name? lLammle, Lammle? I know! 
Saint Mary Axe!” 
_ With a gleam of new intelligence in her sharp 


face the dolls’ dress-maker pulled at Fledgeby’s 


_ bell. No one answered; but from within the 
chambers there proceeded a continuous splutter- 


ing sound of a highly singular and unintelligible 
nature. 


**Good gracious! Is Little Eyes choking ?” 


_eried Miss Jenny. 


- standing ajar. 


Pulling at the bell again and getting no re- 
ply, she pushed the outer door, and found it 
No one being visible on her 


_ opening it wider, and the spluttering continu- 


ing, she took the liberty of opening an inner 


door, and then beheld the extraordinary spec- 
_ tacle of Mr. Fledgeby in a shirt, a pair of Turk- 


ish trowsers, and a Turkish cap, rolling over and 


_ over on his own carpet, and spluttering wonder- 


eye! 


fully. 

Oh Lord !” gasped Mr. Fledgeby. ‘‘Oh my 
Stop thief! Iam strangling. Fire! Oh 
myeye! A glass of water. Give mea glass of 
water. Shut the door. Murder! Oh Lord!” 
And then rolled and spluttered more than ever. 

Hurrying into another room, Miss Jenny got 
a glass of water, and brought it for Fledgebv’s 
relief: who, gasping, spluttering, and rattling 
in his throat betweenwhiles, drank: some water, 
and laid his head faintly on her arm. 

“°Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby, struggling 
anew. ‘‘It’s salt and snuff. It’s up my nose, 
and down my throat, and in my windpipe. 
Ugh! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah—h—h—h!” And 
here, crowing fearfully, with his eyes starting 
out of his head, appeared to be contending with 
every mortal disease incidental to poultry. 

*¢ And Oh my eye, I'm so sore!” cried Fledge- 
by, starting over on his back, in a spasmodic 
way that caused the dress-maker to retreat to 
the wall. ‘‘OhIsmart so! Do put something 
to my back and arms, and legs and shoulders. 
Ugh! It’s down my throat again and can’t 
comeup. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah—h—h—h! Oh 
I smart so!” Here Mr. Fledgeby bounded up, 


‘and bounded down, and went rolling over and 


over again. 
The dolls’ dress-maker looked on. until he 


rolled himself into a corner with his Turkish 


slippers uppermost, and then, resolving in the 
first place to address her ministration to the salt 
and snuff,. gave him more water and slapped 
his back. But the latter application was by no 
means a success, causing Mr. Fledgeby to scream, 


and to cry out, ‘*Oh my eve! don’t slap me! 


I’m covered with weales and I smart so !” 

_ However, he gradually ceased to choke and 
crow, saving at intervals, and Miss Jenny got 
him into an easy-chair: where, with his eves 


red and watery, with his features swollen, and 


with some half-dozen livid bars across his face, 


_ he presented a most rueful sight. 


 gassin. Lammle. 


‘What ever possessed you to take salt and 
snuff, young man?” inquired Miss Jenny. 

**T didn’t take. it,” the dismal youth replied. 
“Tt was crammed. into my mouth.” 

** Who crammed it?” asked Miss Jenny. 
_ **fe did,” answered Fliedgeby. ‘‘The as- 
He rubbed it into my mouth 
and up my nose and down my throat—Ow! 
Ow! Ow! Ah—h—h—h! Ugh!—to prevent 


My crying out, and then cruelly assaulted me.” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


311 


** With this ?” asked Miss Jenny, showing the 
pieces of cane. 

‘‘That’s the wéapon,” said Fledgeby, eying 
it with the air of an acquaintance. ‘ He broke 
it over me. Oh I smart so! How did you 
come by it ?” Na 

‘*When he ran down stairs and joined the 
lady he had left in the hall with his hat”—Miss 
Jenny began. 

** Oh!” groaned Mr. Fledgeby, writhing, ‘ she 
was holding his hat, was she? I might have 
known she was in it.” y 

‘‘ When he came down stairs and joined the 
lady who wouldn’t let me come up, he gave me 
the pieces for you, and I was to say, ‘ With Mr. 
Alfred Lammle’s compliments on his leaving 
England.’” Miss Jenny said it withsuch spite- 
ful satisfaction, and such a hitch of her chin 
and eyes as might have added to Mr. Fledgeby’s 
miseries, if he could have noticed either, in his 
bodily pain with his hand to his head. 

‘Shall I go for the police?” inquired Miss 
Jenny, with a nimble start toward the door. 

“Stop! No, don’t!” cried Fledgeby. ‘‘Don’t, 
please. Wehad better keep it quiet. Will you 
be so good as shut the door? Oh I do smart 
so!” 

In testimony of the extent to which he smart- 
ed Mr. Fledgeby came wallowing ont of the 
easy-chair and took another roll on the carpet. 

‘*Now the door’s shut,” said Mr. Fledgeby, 
sitting up in anguish, with his Turkish cap half 
on and half off, and the bars on his face getting 
bluer, ‘‘do me the kindness to look at my back 
and shoulders. They must be in an awful state, 
for I hadn’t got my dressing-gown on when the 
brute came rushing in. Cut my shirt away from 
the collar; there’s a pair of scissors on that ta- 
ble. ‘‘Oh!” groaned Mr. Fledgeby, with his 
hand to his head again. ‘‘ How I do smart, to 
be sure !” 

‘¢There?” inquired Miss Jenny, alluding to 
the back and shoulders. 

‘¢Oh Lord, yes!’ moaned Fledgeby, rocking 
himself. ‘‘ And all over! Every where!” 

The busy little dress-maker quickly snipped 
the shirt away, and laid bare the results of as fa- 
rious and sound a thrashing aseven Mr. Fledge- 
by merited. ‘‘ You may well smart, young 
man !” exclaimed Miss Jenny. And stealthily 
rubbed her little hands behind him, and poked 
a few exultant pokes with her two forefingers 
over the crown of his head. 

‘* What do you think of vinegar and brown 
paper?” inquired the suffering Fledgeby, still 
rocking and moaning. ‘Does it look as if 
vinegar and brown paper was the sort of appli- 
cation ?” 

‘¢ Yes,”’ said Miss Jenny, with asilent chuckle. 
‘‘Tt looks as if it ought to be Pickled.” 

Mr. Fledgeby collapsed under the word ‘‘ Pick- 
led,” and groaned again. ‘‘My kitchen is on 
this floor,” he said; ‘‘ you'll find brown paper 
in a dresser-drawer there, and a bottle of vin- 
egar ona shelf. Would you have the kindness 
to make a few plasters and put ’em on? It 
can’t be kept too quiet.” 

‘‘One, two—hum— five, six. You'll want 
six,’’ said the dress-maker. 

‘¢There’s smart enough,” whimpered Mr. 
Fledgeby, groaning and writhing again, ‘‘ for 
sixty.” 


a ae 


5 = 


312 


Miss Jenny repaired to the kitchen, scissors in 
hand, found the brown paper and found the vin- 
egar, and skillfully cut out and steeped six large 

_ plasters. When they were all lying ready on 
"the dresser, an idea occurred to her as she was 
about to gather them up. 
«7 think,” said Miss Jenny, with a silent 
laugh, ‘‘he ought to have a little pepper? Just 
a few grains? I think the young man’s tricks 
and manners make a claim upon his friends for 
a little pepper ?” 

Mr. Fledgeby’s evil star showing her the pep- 

per-box on the chimney-piece, she climbed upon 


a chair and got it down, and sprinkled all the, 
plasters with a judicious hand. She then went | 


back to Mr. Fledgeby and stuck them all on 
him: Mr. Fledgeby uttering a sharp howl as 
each was put in its place. 

‘¢There, young man!” said the dolls’ dress- 
maker. ‘*Now I hope you feel pretty comfort- 
able ?” 


Apparently Mr. Fledgeby did not, for he} 
cried, by way of answer, ‘‘Oh—h how [ do) 


smart!” 

Miss Jenny got his Persian gown upon him, 
extinguished his eyes crookedly with his Persian 
cap, and helped him to his bed: upon which he 
climbed groaning. ‘‘ Business between you and 
me being out of the question to-day, young man, 
and my time being precious,” said Miss Jenny 
then, ‘‘I’ll make myself scarce. Are you com- 
fortable now ?”’ 

‘Oh my eye!” cried Mr. Fledgeby. 
Tain’t. Oh—h—h! how I do smart!” 

The last thing Miss Jenny saw, as she looked 
back before closing the room door, was Mr. 
Fledgeby in the act of plunging and gamboling 
‘all over his bed, like a porpoise or dolphin in 
its native element. She then shut the bedroom 
door, and all the other doors, and going down 
stairs and emerging from the Albany into the 

~~ busy streets, took omnibus for Saint Mary Axe: 
pressing on the road all the gayly-dressed ladies 
whom she could see from the window, and 
making them unconscious lay-figures for dolls, 
while she mentally cut them out and basted them. 


“No, 


—_—__>——_——_—— 


CHAPTER IX. 
TWO PLACES VACATED. 


Set down by the omnibus at the corner of 
Saint Mary Axe, and trusting to her feet and 
her cruteh-stick within its precincts, the dolls’ 
dress-maker proceeded to the place of busines 
sof Pubsey and Co. All there was sunny an 
quiet externally, and shady and quiet internally. 
Hiding herself in the entry outside the glass 
door, she could see from that post of observation 
the old man in his spectacles sitting writing at 
his desk. 

‘¢Boh!” cried the dress-maker, popping in 
her head at the glass door. ‘‘Mr. Wolf at 
home?” 

The old man took his glasses off, and mildly 
laid them down beside him. ‘‘ Ah! Jenny, is it 
you? I though you had given me up.” 

‘¢ And so I had given up the treacherous wolf 
of the forest,” she replied; ‘‘ but, godmother, it 


strikes me you have come back. Iam not quite 
sure, because the wolf and you change forms. I 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 9°) 


want to ask you a question or two, to find ou 
whether you are really godmother or reall: 
wolf. May 1?” . hee 

‘‘Yes, Jenny, yes.” But Riah glanced to- 
ward the door, as if he thought his principal — 
might appear there, unseasonably. a 

‘< Tf you're afraid of the fox,” said Miss Jenny, — 
‘you may dismiss all present expectations of — 
seeing that animal. He won’t show himself — 
abroad for many a day.” i 

‘ What do you mean, my child ?” 

‘‘T mean, godmother,” replied Miss Wren, | 
sitting down beside the Jew, ‘‘that the fox has 
caught a famous flogging, and that if his skin 
and bones are not tingling, aching, and smart-_ 
ing at this present instant, no fox did ever tingle, ~ 
ache, and smart.” ‘herewith Miss Jenny re-~ 
lated what had come to pass in the a 


omitting the few grains of pepper. “aa 

‘‘ Now, godmother,” she went on, ‘‘T partie- 7 
ularly wish to ask you what has taken place here ~ 
since I left the wolf here? Because I have an 7 
idea about the size of a marble rolling about ins 
my little noddle. First and foremost, are you 
Pubsey and Co., or are you either? Upon your 
solemn word and honor.” 
’ The old man shook his head. 

‘‘Secondly, isn’t Fledgeby both Pubsey and 
Co. ?” . 

The old man answered with a reluctant nod, — 

‘‘ My idea,” exclaimed Miss Wren, ‘‘is now 
about the size of an orange. But before it gets — 
any bigger, welcome back, dear godmother!” ~ 

The little creature folded her arms about the — 
old man’s neck with great earnestness, and kissed 
him. ‘‘I humbly beg. your forgiveness, god-— 
mother. I am truly sorry. I ought to have had 
more faith in you. But what could I suppose” 
when you said nothing for yourself, you know? — 
I don’t mean to offer that as a justification, but” 
what could I suppose when you were a silent 
party to all he said? It did look bad; now” 
didn’t it?” “a 

‘Tt looked so bad, Jenny,” responded the old” 
man, with gravity, “that I will straightway tell” 
you what an impression it wrought upon me. 17 
was hateful in mine own eyes. I was hateful to” 
myself, in being so hateful to the debtor and to 
you. But more than that, and worse than thag, 
and to pass out far and broad beyond myself— 
I reflected that evening, sitting alone in my gar=_ 
den on the house-top, that I was doing dishonor ~ 
to my ancient faith and race. I reflected— 
clearly reflected for the first time—that in bend 
ing my neck to the yoke I was willing to wear 
I bent the unwilling necks of the whole Jewish 
people. For it is not, in Christian countries, 
with the Jews as with other peoples. Men say. 
‘This is a bad Greek, but there are good Greek 
This is a bad Turk, but there are good Turks, 
Not so with the Jews. Men find the bad amon 
us easily enough—among what peoples are tf) 
bad not easily found ?—but they take the wor 
of us as samples of the best: they take the lo 
of us as presentations of the highest; and th 
; say, ‘All Jews are alike,’ If, doing what I w 
content to do here, because I was grateful for t 


past and have small need of money now, I hi 
been a Christian, I could have done it, compr 
mising no one but my individual self. But do. 
ing it as a Jew, I could not choose but compro- 
mise the Jews of all conditions and all countries, 


_.It is a little hard upon us, but it is the truth. 
_ I would that all our people remembered it! 
- Though I have little right to say so, seeing that 
_it came home so late to me.” 

The dolls’ dress-maker sat holding the old 
_ man by the hand, and looking thoughtfully in 
his face. 

‘Thus I reflected, I say, sitting that evening 
in my garden on the house-top. And _ passing 
the painful scene of that, day in review before me 
‘Many times, I always saw that the poor gentle- 
man believed the story readily, because I was 
one of the Jews—that you believed the story 
readily, my child, because I was one of the Jews 
—that the story itself first came into the inven- 
tion of the originator thereof, because I was one 
of the Jews. This was the result of my having 
had you.three before me, face to face, and see- 
ing the thing visibly presented as upon a thea- 
tre. Wherefore I perceived that the obligation 
was upon me to leave this service. But Jenny, 
my dear,” said Riah, breaking off, “I promised 
that you should pursue your questions, and I 
obstruct them.” 

“On the contrary, godmother; my idea is as 
large now as a pumpkin—and you know what a 
pumpkin is, don’t you? So you gave notice 
that you were going? Does that come next ?” 
asked Miss Jenny, with a look of close attention. 

**I indited a letter to my master. Yes. To 
that effect.” 

**And what said Tingling-Tossing-Aching- 
Scereaming-Scratching-Smarter ?” asked Miss 
Wren, with an unspeakable enjoyment in the ut- 

_ terance of those honorable titles and in the rec-. 
ollection of the pepper. 

*“He held me to certain months of servitude, 
which were his lawful term of notice. They ex. 
pire to-morrow. é 
before—I had meant to set myself right with my 
Cinderella.” 

**My gdea is getting so immense now,” eried 
Miss Wren, clasping her temples, “that my head 
won't hold it! Listen, godmother; I am 20- 
ing to expound. Little Eyes (that’s Screaming- 
Scratching-Smarter) owes you a heavy grudge 
for going. Li ttle Eves casts about. how. hest-to 
pay you off..Little Kyes thinks of Lizzie. Lit- 


because it’s dear to. him.’ 
thinks, ‘I'll make love to her myself’ too;’ but 
: that I can’t swear—all the rest I can. So, Lit- 
tle Eyes comes to me, and I go to Little Kyes. 
That’s the way of it. And now the murder’s 
all out, I’m sorry,” added the dolls” dress-maker, 
rigid from head to foot with energy as she shook 
her little fist before her eyes, “that I didn’t give 
him Cayenne pepper and chopped pickled Cap- 
-sicum !” : ; 
__ This expression of regret being but partially 
intelligible to Mr. Riah, the old man reverted 
to the injuries Fledgeby had received, and hint- 
ed at the necessity of his at once going to tend 
that beaten cur. 

__ “Godmother, godmother, godmother!” cried 
‘Miss Wren irritably, ‘I really lose all patience 
With you. One would think yon believed in 
the Good Samaritan. How can you be so in- 
“consistent ?” 

‘Jenny, dear,” began the old man gently, 

“it is yam of our people to help—” | 


\\, Coa 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Upon their expiration—not'| 


ed. 
tle Kyes says to himself, ‘WH find out-where he | 
has placed that girl, and Vl betray hissecret. | 
Perhaps Little Eves , 


313 
“Oh! Bother your people!” interposed Miss 
Wren, with a toss of her head. «If your peo- 
ple don’t know better than to go and help Little 
Keyes, it’s a pity they ever got out of Egypt. 
Over and above that,” she added, ‘*he wouldn’t 
take your help if you offered it. Too much 
ashamed, Wants to keep it close and quiet, 
and to keep you out of the Lo) pee 

They were still debating this point when a 
shadow darkened the entry, and the glass door 
was opened by a messenger who brought a letter 
unceremoniously addressed, ‘‘Riah.” ‘To which 
he said there was an answer wanted. 

The letter, which was scrawled in pencil up 
hill and down hill and round crooked corners, 
ran thus: 


“OLD R1an,—Your accounts being all squared, 
go. Shut up the place, turn out directly, and 
send me the key by bearer. Go. You are an! 
unthankful dog of a Jew. Get out. fk ay ay 


The dolls’ dress-maker found it delicious to 
trace the screaming and smarting of Little Eves 
in the distorted writing of this epistle. She 
laughed over it and jeered at it in a convenient 
corner (to the great astonishment of the mes- 
senger) while the old man got his few goods to- 
gether ina black bag. That done, the shutters 
of the upper windows closed, and the office blind 
pulled down, they issned- forth upon the steps 
with the attendant messenger, There, while 
Miss Jennv held the bag, ‘the old man locked 
the house door, and handed over the key to him; 
who at onee retired with the same. 

‘* Well, godmother,” said Miss Wren, as they 
remained upon the steps together, looking at 


}one another. ‘‘ And so you're thrown upon the 


world !” 

‘“It would appear so, Jenny, and somewhat 
suddenly.” 

‘* Where are you 
asked Miss Wren. 

The old man smiled, but looked about him 
with a look of having lost his way In life, which 
did not escape the dolls’ dress-maker, 

‘Verily, Jenny,” said he, “the question is to 
the purpose, and more easily asked than answer- 
But as I have experience of the ready good- 
will and good help of those who have given oe- 
cupation to Lizzie, I think I will seck them out 
for myself.” 2 

‘On foot?” asked Miss Wren, with a chop. 

‘‘ Ay!” said the old man. ‘‘ Have I not my 
staff?” 

It was exactly because he had his staff, and 
presented so quaint an aspect, that she mistrust- 
ed his making the journey. 

“The best thing you can do,” said Jenny, 
‘‘for the time being, at all events, is to eome 
home with me, godmother. Nobody’s there but 
my bad child, and Lizzic’s lodging stands emp= 
ty.” The old man when satisfied that no in- 
convenience could be entailed on any one by his 
compliance, readily complied; and the singular- 
ly-assorted couple once more went through the 
strects together, 

Now, the bad child having been strictly charged 
by his parent to remain at home in her absence, 
of course went out; and, being in the very last 
stage of mental decrepitnde, went out with two 
objects: firstly, to establish a claim he conceived 
himself to have upon any licensed victualer liv- 


going to seck your fortune ?” 


ob, more 


314 


“ing, to be supplied with threepennyworth of rum 


— 


all 


' den Market and there bivouacked, to have 


for nothing; and, secondly, to bestow some 
maudlin remorse on Mr. Kkugene Wrayburn, and 
see what profit came of it. Stumblingly pur- 
suing these two designs—they both meant rum, 
the only meaning of Which he was capable—the 
degraded creature staggered into Covent Gar- 
an 
attack of the trembles succeeded by an attack 
of the horrors, in a doorway. 

This market of Covent Garden was quite out 
the creature’s line of road, but it had the at- 
traction for him which it has for the worst of 
the solitary members of the drunken tribe. It 
may be the companionship of the nightly stir, or 
it may be the companionship of the gin and 
beer that slop about among carters and huck- 
sters, or it may be the companionship of the 


radon vegetable refuse, which is so like their 


own dress that perhaps they take the Market for 
a great wardrobe; but be it what it mi: ay, you 
shale Ho such individual drunkards on door- 
steps any where as there. Of dozing women- 
drunkards especially, you shall come upon such 
pecimens there, in ‘the morning sunlight, as you 
might seck ont of doors in vain through Lon- 
don. Such stale, vapid, rejected cabbage-leaf 

and cabbage-stalk dress; such damaged orange 
countenance; such squashed pulp of humanity, 


- are open to the day nowhere else. So the at- 
traction of the Market drew Mr. Dolls to it, and 


he had out his two fits of trembles and horrors 
in a doorway on which a woman had had out 
her sodden nap a few hours before. 

There is a swarm of young savages always 
flitting abont this same place, creeping off with 
fragments of orange-chests, and mouldy litter 
—Heaven knows into what holes they can con- 
vey them, having no home!—whose bare feet 
fall with a blunt, dull sofiness on the pavement 
as the policeman hunts them, and who are (per- 
haps for that reason) little heard by the Powers 
that be, whereas in top-boots they would make 
a deafening clatter. These, dehghting in the 
trembles. and the horrors of Mr, Dolls, as in a 
gratuitous drama, flocked about him in his door- 
way, butted at him, leaped at him, and pelted 
him. Hence, when he came out of his invalid 
retirement and shook off that ragged train, he 
was much bespattered, and in worse case than 
ever. But not yet at his worst; for, going into 
a public house, and being supplied in stress of 
business with his rum, and seeking to vanish 
without payment, he was collared, searched, 
found penniless, and admonished not to try that 
again, by having a pail of dirty water cast over 
him. This application superinduced another fit 
of the trembles; after which Mr. Dolls, as find- 
ing himself in good cue for making a call on a 
professional friend, addressed himself to the 
Temple... 

‘There was nobody at the chambers but Young 
Blight. That discreet youth, sensible of a cer- 
tain incongruity in the association of such a 
client with the business that might be coming 
some day, with the best intentions temporized 
with Dolls, and offered a shilling for coach-hire 
home. Mr. Dolls, accepting the shilling, prompt- 
ly laid it out in two threepennyworths of con- 
spiracy against his life, and two threepenny- 
worths of raging repentance, Returning to the 
Chambers with which burden, he was descried 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEN D. 


a 


coming round into the court by the wary young 
Blight watching from the window :. 
object to expend his fary on the panels. sh 
‘he more the door resisted him the more dan- 
gerous and imminent beqame that bloody con- 
spiracy against his life. Force of police arriy-— 
ing, he recognized i in them the conspirators, and 
laid about him hoarsely, fiercely, staringly, con- 
vulsively, foamingly. A humble machine, fa-— 


ee to the conspirators, and called hy the ex-— 


sressive name of Stretcher, being unavoidably 
sent for, he was rendered a harmless bundle of 
torn rags by being strapped down npon it, with 
voice and consciousness gone out of him, and 
life fast going. As this machine was borne out 
at the Temple gate by four men the poor little 
dolls’ dress-maker and her Jewish friend were 
coming up the street. ) 

‘¢ Let us see what it is,” cried the dresem alee 
‘¢ Vet us make hast and look, godmother.” 

~The brisk little crutch-stick was but too brisk. 
‘“Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, he belongs to me!” 

“ Belongs to you?” said the head of the 
party, stopping it. 

“Oh yes, dear gentlemen, he’s my child, out 
without leave. My poor, bad, bad boy! and he 
don’t’ know me, he don’t know me! Oh, what 
shall I do,” cried the little creature, wildly beat- 
ing her he inds together, ‘*when my own child 
don’t know me!” 

The head of the party looked (as well he 
might) to the old man for explanation. He 
whispered, as the dolls’ dress-maker bent over 
the exhausted form, and vainly tried to extract 
some sign of recognition from it: ‘‘It’s her 
drunken father.” 

As the load was put down in the street, Riah 
drew the head of the party aside, and whispered 
that he thought the man was dying. ‘‘ No, sure- 
ly not?” returned the other. But he became 
less confident on looking, and directed the bear- 

rs to * bring him to the nearest doctor’s shop.” 

Thither he was brought; the window becom- 
ing from within a wall of faces, deformed into 
all kinds of shapes through the agency of globu- 
lar red bottles, green bottles, blue bottles, and 
other colored bottles. A ghastly light shining 


upon him that he didn’t need, the beast so furi- q 


ous but a few minutes gone was quiet enough 
now, With a strange, mysterious writing on his 
face, reflected from one of the great bottles, as 
if Death had marked him: ‘‘ Mine.” 

‘The medical testimony was more precise and 
more to the purpose than it sometimes is ina 
Court of Justice. ‘You had betier send for 
something to cover it. All’s over.’ 


Therefore the police sent for something to 
cover it, and it was covered and borne through ~ 


the streets, the people falling away, After it- 


went the dolls’ dress-maker, hiding her face in — 
the Jewish skirts, and clinging to them with © 
one hand, while with the other she plicd her — 


stick. It was carried home, and, by reason 
that the staircase was very narrow, it was put 


down in the parlor—the little working-bench s 


being set aside to make room for it—and ere 
in the midst of the dolls with no speculation: in 
their eyes, lay Mr. Dolls with no speculatiag in ri 
his. 

Many flaunting dolls had to be gayly dressed — 
before the money was in the dress-maker’ 8 pocket 


who instant. 
ly closed the outer door, and left the miserable “ 


ie 


3 to get mourning for Mr. Dolls. As the old man, 
Riah, sat by, helping her in such small ways as he 


her father. 


“If my poor boy,” she would say, ‘‘ had been | 


brought up better, he might have done better. 
Not that I reproach myself. 
cause for that.” 

‘*None indeed, Jenny, I am very certain.” 
— Thank you, godmother. It cheers me to 
hear you say so. But you see’it is so hard to 


bring up a child well, when you work, work, | 
When he was out of employ- 


work, all day. 


ment I couldn’t always keep him near me. He 


got fractious and nervous, and I was obliged to | 


let him go into the streets. And he never did 
well in the streets, he never did well out of 
sight. How often it happens with children !” 

‘«Too often, even in this sad sense !”” thought 
the old man. | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


~ could, he found it difficult to make out whether | 
she really did realize that the deceased had been 


I hope I have no | 


315 


| while Lam gone. It’s not far off. And when 
'I return, we'll have a cup ‘of tea, and a chat 
over future arrangements. It’s a very plain last 
house that. I have been able to give my poor un- 
fortunate boy; but he’ll accept the will for the 
deed, if he knows any thing about it; and if he 
doesn’t know any thing about it,’ with a sob, 
and wiping her eyes, ‘‘ why, it won’t matter to 
him. I see the service in the Prayer-book says, 
that we brought nothing into this world and it is 
certain we can take nothing out. It comforts 


world with him, when of course I must break 
down in the attempt, and bring ’em all back 
again. <As it is, there’ll be nothing to bring 
back but me, and that’s quite consistent, for I 
sha’n’t be brought back, some day !” 
After that previous carrying of him in the 
streets, the wretched old fellow seemed to be 


‘How can I say what I might have turned--twice buried. He was taken on the shoulders 


out myself, but for my back having been so bad 
and my legs “so queer, when I was young!” the 
dress-maker would go on. ‘‘I had nothing to 
do but.work, and so I worked. I couldn’t play. 
Bat my poor unfortunate child could play, and 
it turned out the worse for him.” 

<¢ And not for him alone, Jenny.” 
‘Well! I don’t know, godmother. 


He suf- 


/very, very ill sometimes, Eca) 
i quantity of names:” shaking her head over her 
| work, and dropping tears. 

his going wrong was much the worse for me. 
If it ever was, let us forget it.” 


~——«« You are a good girl, you are a patient girl.” 


<¢ As for patience,” she would reply with a | 


shrug, ‘‘not much of that, godmother. If I 
- had been patient I should never have called 
him names, But I hope I did ir for his good. 
~And besides, I felt my responsibility as a mo- 
ther so much. I tried reasoning, and reasoning 
failed. I tried ecvuaxing, and coaxing failed. I 
tried scolding, and scolding failed. But I was 
bound to try every thing, you know, with such 
a charge upon my hands. Where would have 
_ focen my duty to my poor lost boy if I had not 
tried every thing!” 


With such talk, mostly in a cheerful tone on | 


the part of the industrious little creature, the 
day-work and the night-work were beguiled un- 
til enough of smart dolls had gone forth to bring 
into the kitchen, where the working-bench now 
stood, the sombre stuff that the occasion required, 


and to bring into the house the other sombre | 


preparations. ‘‘ And now,” said Miss Jenny, 
» “having knocked off my rosy-cheeked young 
friends, Pll knock off my white-checked self.” 
' This referred to her making her own dress, 
which at last was done. 


stood upon a chair to look at the result in the 
glass, ‘‘is, that you can’t charge any body else 
> for the job, and the advantage is, that von 
haven’t to go out to try on. Humph! Very 
@ fair indeed! If He could see me now (whoever 
he is) | hope he wouldn’t repent of his bargain !” 
The simple arrangements were of her own 
making, and were stated to Riah thus: 
_ “T mean to go alone, godmother, in my usnal 
carriage, and you'll be so kind as keep house 
i » 


¥ 


‘<The disadvantage | 
_,of making for yourself,” said Miss Jenny, as she | 


of half a dozen blossom-faced men, who shnf- 
fled with him to the church-yard, and who were 
preceded by another blossom-faced man, affect- 
‘ing a stately stalk, as if he were a Policeman of 
|the D(eath) Division, and ceremoniously pre- 
tending not to know his intimate acquaintances, 
as he led the pageant. Yet, the spectacie of 
only one little mourner hobbling after, caused 
many people to turn their heads with a look of 
interest. 

At last the troublesome deceased was got into 
the ground, to be buried no more, and the state- 
ly stalker stalked back before the solitary dress- 
maker, as.if she were bound in honor to have no 
notion of the way home. Those Furies, the 
conventionalities, being thus appeased, he lett 
her. 

‘‘T must have a very short ery, godmother, 
before I cheer up for good,” said the little creat- 
ure, coming in. ‘‘ Because after all a child is a 
child, you know.” 

It was a longer cry than might have been ex- 
pected. Howbeit, it wore itself out in a shad- 
owy corner, and then the dress-maker came 
forth, and washed her face, and made the tea. 
‘¢You wouldn’t mind my eutting out something 
while we are at tea, would you?” she asked her 
Jewish friend, with a coaxing air. 

“‘ Cinderella, dear child,” the old man expos- 
tulated, ‘will you never rest ?” 

‘Oh! It’s not work, entting out a pattern 
isn’t,” said Miss Jenny, with her busy little scis- 
sors already snipping at some paper. ‘The 
truth is, godmother, I want to fix it while I have 
it correct in my mind.” 


| 


““Yes, godmother. Saw it just now. Itsa 
surplice, that’s what it is. Thing our clergymen 
wear, you know,” explained Miss Jenny, in con- 
sideration of his professing another faith. : 

“And what have you to do with that, Jenny real 

‘Why, godmother,” replied the dress-maker, 
‘‘you must know that we Professors who live 
upon our taste and invention are obliged to keep 
our eves always open. And you know already 
that I have many extra expenses to meet Just 
now. So, it came into my head while I was 
weeping at my poor boy’s grave, that something 
in mv wav might be done with a clergyman.” 

«What can be done?” asked the old man. 


‘‘Have you seen it to-day then?” asked Riah, 


ry 


me for not being able to hire a lot of stupid un- - 
dertaker’s things for my poor child, and seem- . 
ing as if I was trying to smuggle ’em out of this~ 


dee 


ae 


316. 


SoTL L 
EY, Lp 
DLL 
iy Weg i) 


ty 


Y jp 
Uf i; Yip YY 
4, Y Wig yey 
i Ih Wy 
Li y Wy 


Wy i ies 
Vy Wy 
ig 
Yelp 
My Yip 


— Ss 
Ss HI 
SS R 


‘¢Not a funeral, never fear!” returned Miss 

- Jenny, anticipating his objection with a nod. 

‘¢'The public don’t like to be made melancholy, 

I know very well. Iam seldom called upon to 

put my young friends into mourning; not into 

real mourning, that is; Court mourning they 

-- are rather proud of. But a doll clergyman, my 

dear—glossy black curls and whiskers—uniting 

— two of my young friends in matrimony,” said 

Miss Jenny, shaking her forefinger, ‘‘is quite 

another affair. If you don’t see those three at 

“the altar in Bond Street, in a jiffy, my name’s 
-Jack Robinson !” 

With her expert little ways in sharp action, 
she had got a doll into whitey-brown paper or- 
ders before the meal was over, and was display- 
ing it for the edification of the Jewish mind, 
when a knock was heard at the street-door. 
Riah went to open it, and presently came back, 


oS 


that I am Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, and will _ 
tell vou so.” ~ bes oa a 
Riah bent his head in corroboration. ~~ Ae 9 


$ 
\ 
‘ 
4 
re 
a 
pee 
Saat Fe 
mM 
Q 
14 
= 
= 
Ze 
ic 
fem} 
= 
mM 
he 
=| 
; 
tip 
is 
‘ : 


ushering in, with the grave and courteous air 
that sat so well upon him, a gentleman. 

The gentleman was a stranger to the dress- 

aker; but even in the moment of his casting 
his eyes upon her, there was something in his 
manner which brought to her remembrance Mr. _ 
Eugene Wrayburn. a 

‘¢ Pardon me,” said the gentleman. ‘**You are 
the dolls’ dress-maker ?” 

‘“‘T am the dolls’ dress-maker, Sir.” 

‘¢ Lizzie Hexam’s friend ?” 
“Yes, Sir,” replied Miss Jenny, instantly on 
the defensive. ‘‘ And Lizzie Hexam’s friend.” —_ 

‘Here is a note from her, entreating you to _ 
accede to the request of Mr. Mortimer Light- 
wood, the bearer. Mr. Riah chances to know 


| 


% 


j 
“ 


hi 
L; 


f 
ct 
i 


: 
: 
+e 
fe 

s 

ee 

= 


—OWill you read the note ?” 
“Ths very short,” said Jenny, with a look of 
“wonder, when she had read it. 

*<'There was no time to make it longer. Time 
was so very precious. My dear friend Mr. Eu- 
gene Wrayburn is dying.” 

The dress-maker clasped her hands, and ut- 
tered a little piteous cry. 

‘*Js dying,” repeated Lightwood, with emo- 
tion, ‘“‘at some distance from here. He is sink- 
ing under injuries received at the hands of a vil- 
lain who attacked him in the dark. I come 
straight from his bedside. He is almost always 
insensible. In a short restless interval of sensi- 
bility, or partial sensibility, Lmade out that he 
asked for you to be brought to sit by him. Hardly 
relying on my own F posit of the indistinct 
sounds he made, I caused-Hizzié to hear them, 
We were both suit that he asked for you.’ 

The dress-maker, with her hands still clasped, 
looked affrightedly from the one to thé other of 
her two companions. 

“*If you delay, he may die with his request 
ungratified, with his last wish—intrusted to me 
—we have ‘long been much more than brothers 
—unfulfilled. I shall break down if I try to 
say more.” 

In a few moments the black bonnet and the 


crutch=stick w were.on duty, the=good-Jew_was left: 


in“posséssion of the house,and_the dolls’ dress- 
maker, side_by side-ina—chaise with Mortimer, 
Lightwo vood, was posting out of town, eae 


> 


CHAPTER X. 
THE DOLLS’ DRESS-MAKER DISCOVERS A WORD. 


~ A DARKENED and hushed room ; the river out- 
side the windows flowing on to the vast ocean ; 
a figure on the bed, swathed and bandaged and 
bound, lying helpless on its back, with its two 
useless arms in splints at its sides. Only two 


~days of usage so familiarized the little dress- | 


maker with this scene, that it held the place 
occupied two days ago by the recollections of 
years. 
He had scarcely moved since her arrival. 
“Sometimes his eyes were open, sometimes closed. 
When they were open, there was no meaning in 
their unwinking stare at one spot straight before 
them, unless for a moment the brow knitted into 
7a faint expression of anger, or surprise. Then, 
, Mortimer Lightwood would speak to him, and 

on occasions he would be so far roused as to make 
an attempt to pronounce his friend’s name. But, 
in an instant consciousness was gone again, and 
no spirit of Kugene was in Eugene’s crushed 
outer form. 

' They provided Jenny with materials for ply- 
ing her work, and she had a little table placed 
at the foot of his bed. Sitting there, with her 
rich shower of hair falling over the chair-back, 
they hoped she might attract his notice. With 
the same object she would sing, just above her 
breath, when he opened his eyes, or she saw his 
brow knit into that faint expression, so evanes- 
cent that it was like a shape made in water. 
ut as yet he had not heeded. The ‘‘they” here 
entioned were the medical attendant; Lizzie, 
vho was there in all her intrvals of rest ; and 
aghtwood, who never left him. 

— 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


317 

The two days became three, and the three 
days became four. At length, quite unexpect- 
edly, he said something in a whisper. 

‘¢ What was it, my dear Eugene eo 

** Will you, Mortimer—” 

“Will I— ?” 

—‘*Send for her ?” 

‘¢ My dear fellow, she is here.” 

Quite unconscious of the long blank, he sup- 
posed that they were still speaking together. 

The little dress-maker stood up at the foot of 
the bed, humming her song, and nodded to him 
brightly, “IT can’t shake hands, Jenny,” said 
Eugene, with something of his old. look; ‘but I 
am very glad to see you.” 

Mortimer repeated this to her, for it could 
only be made out by bending over him and 
closely watching his attempts to say it. In ae 
little while he added: 

‘* Ask her if she has seen the children.” 

Mortimer could not. understand this, neither 
could Jenny herself, until he added: 

** Ask her if she has smelt the flowers.” «= 

‘Oh! Tknow!” cried Jenny, ‘‘I understand 
him now!” Then Lightwood yielded his place 
to her quick approach, and she said, bending 
over the bed, with that better look: ‘‘ You mean 
my long bright slanting rows of children, who | 
used to bring me ease and rest? You mean the ( 
children who used to take me up, and make me 
light ?” 

Eugene smiled, ‘‘ Yes.” 

‘‘T have not seen them since I saw you. I 
never see them now, but I am hardly ever in 
pain now.” 

‘*Tt was a pretty fancy,” said Eugene. 

‘* But I have heard my birds sing,” cried the 
little creature, ‘‘and I have smelt my flowers. 
Yes, indeed I have! And both were most beau- 
tiful and most Divine !” 

‘¢ Stay and help to nurse me,” said Eugene, 
quietly. ‘TI should like you to have the fancy — 
here, before I die.” 

She touched his lips with her hand, and shaded ) 
her eyes with that same hand as she went back 
to her work and her little low song. He heard 
the song with evident pleasure, until she allowed 
it gradually to sink away into silence. 

‘* Mortimer.” 

‘*« My dear Eugene.” 

‘‘If you can give me any thing to keep me 
here for only a few minutes—” 

‘¢To keep you here, Eugene ?” 

‘¢'To prevent my wandering away I don’t know 
where—for I begin to be sensible that I have Just 
come back, and that I shall lose myself again— 
do so, dear boy !” 

Mor timer gave him such stimulants as ooula 
be given him with safety (they were always at 
hand, ready), and bending over him once more, 
was about to caution him, when he said: 

‘* Don’t tell me not to speak, for I must speak. 
If you knew the harassing anxiety that gnaws 
and wears me when I am wandering in those 
places—where. are those endless places, Morti- 
mer? They must be at an immense distance !” 

He saw in his friend’s face that he was losing 
himself; for he added after a moment; ‘‘ Don’t 
be afraid—I am not@rone yet. What was it?” 

‘You wanted to tell me something, Eugene. 
My-: oor dear fellow, vou wanted to say sore- 


ed 


i thing to your old fricnd—to the friend who has. 


818 


always loved you, admired you, imitated you, 
founded himself upon you, been’ nothing with- 


out you, and who, God knows, would be here in| 


your place if he could !” 

“Tut, tut!” said Eugene, with a tender glance 
as the other put his hand before his face. ‘*I 
am not worth it. I acknowledge that I like it, 
dear boy, but I am -not worth it. This attack, 
my dear Mortimer; this murder—” 

His friend leaned over him with renewed at- 
tention, saying: ‘* You and I suspect some one.” 

‘More than suspect. But, Mortimer, while I 
hie here, and when I lie here no longer, I trust | 
to you that the perpetrator is never brought to 
justice.” 

‘* Kugene ?” 

**Her innocent reputation would be ruined, | 
my friend. She would be punished, not he. 
I have wronged her enough in fact; I have 
wronged her still more in intention. You reec- 
ollect what pavement is said to be made of good 
intentions. It is made of bad intentions too. 
Mortimer, I am lying on it, and I know!” | 

‘** Be comforted, my dear Eugene.” 

**T will, when you have promised me. Dear | 
Mortimer, the man must never be pursued. If | 
he should be accused, you must keep him silent’ 
and save him. Don’t think of avenging me ; | 
think only of hushing the story and protecting 
her. You can confuse the case, and turn aside | 
the circumstances. Listen to what I say to you. 
It was not the schoolmaster, Bradley Headstone. 
Do you hear me? Twice; it was not the school- | 
master, Bradley Headstone. Do you hear me? | 
Three times; it was not the schoolmaster, Brad- 
ley Headstone.” , 

He stopped, exhausted. His speech had been 
whispered, broken, and indistiact ; but by a great 
effort he had made it plain enough to be unmis- 
takable. 

‘Dear fellow, I am wandering away. Stay 
me for another moment, if you can.” 

Lightwood lifted his head at the neck, and 
put a wine-glass to his lips. He rallied. 

, . ‘I don’t know how long ago it was done, 
whether weeks, days, or hours. No matter. 
There is inquiry on foot, and pursuit. Say! 
Is there not ?” 

Py eso 

‘Check it; divert it! Don’t let her be 
brought in question. Shield her. The guilty 
man, brought to justice, would poison her name. 
Let the guilty man go unpunished. Lizzie and 
my reparation before all! Promise me!” 

“Kugene, Ido. I promise you!” 

In the act of turning his eyes gratefully to- 
ward his friend he wandered away. His eyes 
stood still, and settled into that former intent 
unmeaning stare. 

Hours and hours, days and nights, he remain- 
ed in this same condition. There were times 
‘when he would calmly speak to his friend after 
a long period of unconsciousness, and would say 
he was better, and would ask for something. 


Before it could be given him he would be gone 
again. 

The dolls’ dress-maker, all softened compas- 
sion now, watched him with an earnestness that 
never relaxed. She would regularly change the 
ice, or the cooling spirit, on his head, and would 
keep her ear at the pillow betweenwhiles, listen- 
ing for any faint words that fell from him in his 


! ine speak first. 


' pee “ee hike 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


wanderings. It was amazing through how many 
hours at a time she would remain beside him, in 
a crouching attitude,, attentive: to his slightest 
moan. As he could not move a hand, he could 
make no sign of distress; but, through this close 
watching (if through no secret sympathy or pow- 
er) the little creature attained an understanding 
of him that Lightwood did not possess. Morti- 
mer would often turn to her, as if she were an 
interpreter between this sentient world and the 
insensible man ; and she would change the dress- 
ing of a wound, or ease a ligature, or turn his 
face, or alter the pressure of the bed-clothes on 


him, with an absolute certainty of doing right. 


The natural lightness and delicacy of touch 
which had become very refined by practice in 
her miniature work no doubt was inyolved in 


_this; but her perception was at least as fine. 


The one word, Lizzie, he muttered millions 
of times. In a certain phase of his distressful 
state, which was the worst to those who tended 
him, he would roll his head upon the pillow, in- 
cessantly repeating the name in a hurried and 


| impatient manner, with the misery of a disturbed 


mind, and the monotony of a machine. Equal- 
ly, when he Jay still and staring, he’ would re- 
peat it for hours without cessation, but then, al- 
ways in a tone of subdued warning and horror. 
Mer presence and her touch upon his breast or 
face would often stop this, and then they learned 


_to expect that he would for some time remain 
still, with his eyes closed, and that he would be 


conscious on opening them. But the heavy dis- 
appointment of their hope—revived by the wel- 
come silence of the room—-was, that his spirit 
would glide away again and be lost in the mo- 
ment of their joy that it was there. 

This frequent rising of a drowning man from 
the deep, to sink again, was dreadful to the be- 
holders. But gradually the change stole upon 
him that it became dreadful to himself. His 
desire to impart something that was on_ his 
mind, his unspeakable yearning to have speech 
with his friend and make a communication to 


| him, so troubled him when he recovered con- 


scionsness that its term was thereby shortened. 

As the man rising from the deep would disap- 
ear the sooner for fighting with the water, so 
e in his desperate struggle went down again. 

One afternoon when he had been lying still, 
and Lizzie, unrecognized, had just stolen out of 
the room to pursue her occupation, he uttercd 
Lightwood’s name. 

‘*My dear Engene, I am here.” 

‘* How long is this to last, Mortimer ?” 

Lightwood shook his head. “Still, Eugene, 
you are no worse than you were.” 

‘* But I know there’s no hope. Yet I pray it 
may last long enough for you to do me one last 
service, and for me to do one last action. Keep 
me here a few moments, Mortimer. ‘Try, try !” 

His friend gave him what aid he could, and 
encouraged him to believe that he was more 
composed, though even then his eyes were losing’ 
the expression they so rarely recovered. 

‘*Hold me here. dear fellow, if you can. Stop 
my wandering away, I am going!” ee 

“Not yet, not vet. Tell me, dear Eugene, 
what is it I shall do?” af 


‘‘Keep me here for only a single minute. I 
am going away again. Don’t let me go. Hear 
Stop me—stop me!” yt 


<—~ 


se 


d 


‘ad ‘¢My poor Eugene, try to be calm.” 
“TI dotry, Itryso hard. If you only knew 
how hard! Don’t let me wander till I have 
spoken. Give me a little more wine.” 

Lightwood complied. Eugene, with a most 
pathetic struggle against the unconsciousness 
that was coming over him, and with a look of 
appeal that affected his friend profoundly, said: 

*©You can leave me with Jenny, while you 
oer to her and tell:her what I beseech of her, 

ou can leave me with Jenny while you are 
gone. ‘There’s not much for you to do. You 
won't be long away.” 

‘¢No, no, no. But tell me what it is that I 
shall do, Eugene!” 

‘“‘T am going! You can’t hold me.” 

‘Tell me in a word, Eugene!” 

His eyes were fixed again, and the only word 
that came from his lips was the word millions of 
times repeated. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. 

But the watchful little dress-maker had been 
vigilant as ever in her watch, and she now came 
up and touched Lightwood’s arm as he looked 
down at his friend, despairingly. : 

‘‘ Hush!” she said, with her finger on her lips. 
*¢ His eyes are closing. He’ll be conscious when 
he next opens them. Shall I give you a leading 
word to say to him ?” 

‘© Jenny, if you could only give me the right 
word !” 

“Tcan. Stoop down.” 

He stooped, and she whispered in his ear. 
She whispered in his ear one short word of a sin- 
gle syllable. Lightwood started, and looked at 
her. 

‘Try it,” said the little creature, with an ex- 
cited and exultant face. She then bent over the 
unconscious man, and, for the first time, kissed 
him on the cheek, and kissed the poor maimed 
hand that was nearest to her. Then, she with- 
drew to the foot of the bed. 

Some two hours afterward, Mortimer Light- 
wood saw his consciousness come back, and in- 
- stantly, but very tranquilly, bent over him. 

‘<¢ Don’t speak, Eugene. Do no more than look 
at me, and listen to me. You follow what I say.” 
He moved his head in assent. ’ 

“TI am going on from the point where we 
broke off. Is the word we should soon have 
come to—is it—Wife?” 

‘¢Q God bless you, Mortimer !” 

‘“‘Hush! Don’t be agitated. Don’t speak. 
Hear me, dear Eugene. Your mind will be 
more at peace, lying here, if you make Lizzie 
your wife. You wish me to speak to her, and 
tell her so, and entreat her to be your wife. 
You ask her to kneel at this bedside and be mar- 
ried to you, that your reparation may be‘com- 
plete. Is that so?” 

‘“‘Yes. God bless you! Yes.” 

‘¢Tt shall be done, Eugene. ‘Trust it to me. 
I shall have to go away for some few hours, to 
give effect to your wishes. You see this is un- 
avoidable ?” 

‘Dear friend, I said so.” 

“True. But I had not the clew then. 
do you think I got it ?” 

Glancing wistfully around, Eugene saw Miss 
Jenny at the foot of the bed, looking at him with 
her elbows on the bed, and her head upon her 
hands. There was a trace of his whimsical air 
upon him as he tried to smile at her. 


How 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘¢ Yes indeed,” said Lightwood, ‘the discov-~ 
ery was hers. Observe, my dear Eugene ; while 
I am away you will know that I have discharged 
my trust with Lizzie, by finding her here, in my 
present place at your bedside, to leave you no 
more. <A final word before I go. ‘This is the 
right course of a true man, Eugene. And [ 
solemnly believe, with all my soul, that if Prov- 
idence should mercifully restore you to us, you 
will be blessed with a noble wife in the preserver 
of your life, whom you will dearly love.” 

‘¢Amen. Iam sure of that. But I shall not 
come through it, Mortimer.” 

‘¢¥ou will not be the less hopeful or less 
strong, for this, Eugene.” 

‘No. Touch my face with yours, in case I 
should not hold out till yon come back. I love 
you, Mortimer. Don’t be uneasy for me while 
your are gone, If my dear brave girl will take 
me, I feel persuaded that I shall live long enough 
to be married, dear fellow.” 

Miss Jenny gave up altogether on this part- 
ing taking place between the friends, and, sitting 
with her back toward the bed in the bower made 
by her bright hair, wept heartily, though noise- 
lessly. Mortimer Lightwood was soon gone. 
As the evening light lengthened the heavy re- 
flections of the trees in the river, another figure 
came with a soft step into the sick room. 

‘(Is he conscious?” asked the little dress- 
maker, as the figure took its station by the pil- 
low. For, Jenny had given place to it immedi- 
ately, and could not see the sufferer’s face, in 
the dark room, from her new and remeved po- 
sition. 

‘¢ He is conscious, Jenny,” murmured Eugene 
for himself. ‘‘ He knows his wife.” 


——— ed 


CHAPTER XI. 
EFFECT IS GIVEN TO THE DOLLS’ DRESS-MAK~ 
ER’S DISCOVERY. 


Mrs. Joun RoKESMITH sat at needle-work in 
her neat little room, beside a basket of neat lit- 
tle articles of clothing, which presented so much 


of the appearance of being in the dolls’ dress- 


maker’s way of business, that one might have 
supposed she was going to set up in opposition 
to Miss Wren. Whether the Complete British 
Family Housewife had imparted sage counsel 
anent them, did not appear, but probably not, 
as that cloudy oracle was nowhere visible. For 
certain, however, Mrs. John Rokesmith stitched 
at them with so dextrous a hand, that she must 
have taken lessons of somebody. Love is in all 


‘things a most wonderful teacher, and perhaps 


love (from a pictorial point of view, with nothing 
on but a thimble) had been teaching this branch 
of needle-work to Mrs. John Rokesmith, 

It was near John’s time for coming home, but 
as-Mrs. John was desirous to finish a special tri- 
umph of her skill before dinner, she did not go 
out to meet him. Placidly, though rather con- 
sequentially smiling, she sat stitching away with 
a regular sound, like a sort of dimpled little 
charming Dresden-china clock by the very best 
maker. 

A knock at the door, and a ring at the. bell. 
Not John, or Bella would have flown out to 
ineet him. Then who, if not John? Bella was 


820 


‘asking herself the question, when that flutter- 
ing little fool of a servant fluttered in, saying, 
Mr. Lightwood!” 

Oh good gracious ! 

Bella had but time to throw a handkerchief 
over the basket, when Mr. Lightwood made his 
bow. There was something amiss with Mr. 
Lightwood, for he was strangely grave and 
looked ill. 

With a brief reference to the happy time when 
it had been his privilege to know Mrs. Roke- 
smith as Miss Wilfer, Mr. Lightwood explained 
what was amiss with him and why he came. He 
came bearing Lizzie Hexam’s earnest hope that 
Mrs. John Rokesmith would see her married. 

Bella was so fluttered by the request, and by 
the short narrative he had feelingly given her, 
that there never was a more timely smelling- 
bottle than John’s knock. ‘* My husband,” 

said Bella; ‘‘ Pll bring him in.” 

But that turned out to be more easily said 
than done; for, the instant she mentioned Mr. 
Lightwood’s name, John stopped, with his hand 
upon the lock of the room door. 

‘*Come up stairs, my darling.” 

Bella was amazed by the flush in his face, and 
by his sudden turning away. ‘What can it 
mean?” she thought, as she accompanied him 
up stairs, 

‘Now, my life,” said John, taking her on his 
knee, ‘‘tell me all about it.” 

All very well to say, ‘‘ Tell me all about it;” 
but John was very much confused. His atten- 
tion evidently trailed off, now and then, even 
while Bella told him all about it. Yet she knew 
that he took a great interest in Lizzie and her 
fortunes. What could it mean ? 

‘‘ You will come to this marriage with me, 
John dear?” ‘ 

‘* N—no, my love; I can’t do that.” 

** You can’t do that, John ?” 

** No, my dear, it’s quite out of the question. 
Not to be thought of.” ‘ 

** Am I to go alone, John ?” : 

“No, my dear, you will go with Mr. Light- 
NEOOG LT ut 

‘** Don’t you think it’s time we went down to 
Mr. Lightwood, John dear?” Bella insinuated. 

‘* My darling, it’s almost time you went, but I 
must ask you to excuse me to him altogether.” 

‘‘You never mean, Juhn dear, that you are 
not going to see him? Why, he knows you 
have come home. I told him so.” . . 

‘*That’s a little unfortunate, but it can’t be 
helped. Unfortunate or fortunate, I positively 
can not see him, my love.” 

Bella cast about in her mind what could be 
his reason for this nnaccountable behavior, as 
she sat on his knee looking at him in astonish- 
ment and pouting a little. A weak reason pre- 
sented itself. 

“ John dear, you*never can be jealous of Mr. 
Lightwood ?” 

‘* Why, my precious child,” returned her hus- 
band, laughing outright, ‘* how could I be jeal- 
ous of him? Why should I be jealous of him ?” 

‘Because you know, John,” pursued Bella, 
pouting a little more, ‘‘though he did rather ad- 
mire me once, it was not my fault.” 

_ “Tt was your fault that [ admired yon,” re- 
turned her husband, with a look of pride in her, 
*“fand why not your fault that he admired you? 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


But I jealous on that account? Why, I must — 
go distracted for life if I turned jealous of every — 
one who used to find my wife beautiful and win- ~ 


Te OED Aimee N ie olan se hae oe Pata cha chs he A IE ee ny 
Seat t ‘ ae ‘ 


PE Nar ty at 


ning!” 

‘‘T am half angry with you, John dear,” said 
Bella, laughing a little, “‘and half pleased with 
you; because you are such a stupid old fellow, 
and yet you say nice things, as if you meant 
them. Don’t be mysterious, Sir. What harm 
do you know of Mr. Lightwood ?” 

**None, my love.” 

‘‘ What has he ever done to you, John?” 

‘‘He has never done any thing to me, my 
dear. Iknow no more against him than I know 
against Mr. Wrayburn; he has never done any 
thing to me; neither has Mr. Wrayburn. And 
yet I have exactly the same objegtion to both 
of them,” 

‘*Oh, John!” retorted Bella, as if she were 
giving him up for a bad job, as she used to give 
up herself. ‘You are nothing better than a 
sphinx! And a married sphinx isn’t a—isn’t a 


nice confidential husband,” said Bella, in a tone 


of injury. 

‘* Bella, my life,” said John Rokesmith, touch- 
ing her cheek, with a grave smile, as she cast 
down her eyes and pouted again; ‘look at me. 
I want to speak to you.” 

‘*In earnest, Blue Beard of the secret cham- 
ber?” asked Bella, clearing her pretty face. 

‘‘In earnest. And I confess to the secret 
chamber. Don’t you remember that you asked 
me not to declare what I thought of your higher 
qualities until you had been tried ?” 

‘‘Yes, John dear. And I fully meant it, and 
I fully mean it.” 

“The time will come, my darling—I am no 
prophet, but I say so—when you wid be tried. 
The time will come, I think, when you will un- 
dergo a trial through which you will never pass 
quite triumphantly for me unless you can put 
perfect faith in me.” 

‘Then you may be sure of me, John dear, 
for I can put perfect faith in you, and I do, and 
I always, always will. Don’t judge me by a 
little thing like this, John. In little things I 
am a little thing myself—I always was. But in 
great things I hope not; I don’t mean to boast, 
John dear, but I hope not.” 

He was even better convinced of the truth of 
what she said than she was as he felt her loving 
arms about him. If the Golden Dustman’s rieh- 
es had been his to stake, he would have staked 
them to the last farthing on the fidelity through 
good and evil of her affectionate and trusting 
heart. 

‘‘ Now [ll go down to, and go away with, Mr. 
Lightwood,” said Bella, springing up, 
are the most creasing and tumbling Clumsy- 
Boots of a packer, John, that ever was; but if 


you're quite good, and will promise never to do. 
so any more (though I don’t know what you 


have done!), you may pack me a little bag for a 
night, while I get my bonnet on.” 

He gayly complied, and she tied her dimpled 
chin up, and shook her head into her bonnet, 
and pulled out the bows of her bonnet-strings, 
and got her gloves on, finger by finger, and final- 
ly got them on her little plump hands, and bade 
him good-by, and went down. 
impatience was,much relieved when he 


. found 
her dressed for departure. 


"ee 


‘Vor 


Mr. Lightwood’s. 


“Oh, I forgot!” ‘replied Bella. ‘‘ His best 
compliments. His face is swollen to the size of 
two faces, and he is to go to bed directly, poor 
fellow, to wait for the doctor, who is coming to 
lance him.” 

‘It is curious,” observed Lightwood, ‘‘ that I 
have never yet seen Mr. Rokesmith, though we 
have been engaged in the same affairs.” 

‘¢ Really ?” said the unblushing Bella, 

TT begin to think,” observed Lightwood, 
**that I never shall see him.” 

“These things happen so oddly sometimes,” 
said Bella, with a steady countenance, ‘‘ that 
there seems a kind of fatality in them. But I 
am quite ready, Mr. Lightwood.” 

They started directly in a little carriage that 
Lightwood had brought with him from never- 
to-be-forgotten Greenwich; and from Green- 
wich they started directly for London; and in 
London they waited at a railway station until 
such time as the Reverend Frank Milvey, and 
Margaretta his wife, with whom Mortimer Light- 
wood had been already in conference, should 
come and join them. 

That worthy couple were delayed by a por- 
tentous old parishioner of the female gender, 
who was one of the plagues of their lives, and 
with whom they bore with most exemplary sweet- 
ness -and good-humor, notwithstanding her hay- 
ing an infection of absurdity about her that com- 
municated itself to every thing with which, and 
every body with whom, she came in contact. 
She was a member of the Reverend Frank’s con- 
gregation, and made a point of distinguishing 
herself in that body by conspicuously weeping at 
every thing, however cheering, said by the Rey- 
erend Frank in his public ministration; also, 
by applying to herself the various lamentations 


of David, and complaining in a personally in- 


jured manner (much in arrear of the clerk and 
the rest of the respondents) that her enemies 
were digging pitfalls about her, and breaking 
her with rods of iron. Indéed, this old widow 
discharged herself of that portion of the Morn- 
ing and Evening Service as if she were lodging 
a complaint on oath and applying for a warrant 
before a mazistrate. But this was not her most 
inconvenient characteristic, for that took the 
form of an impression, usually recurring in in- 
clement weather and at about daybreak, that 
she had something on her mind, and stood in 
immediate necd of the Reverend Frank to come 
and take it off. Many a time had that kind 
creature got up, and gone out to Mrs. Sprodgkin 
(such was the disciple’s name), suppressing a 
‘strong sense of her comicality by his strong sense 
of duty, and perfectly knowing that nothing but 
a cold would come of it. However, beyond 
themselves, the Reverend Frank Milvey and Mrs. 
Milvey seldom hinted that Mrs. Sprodgkin was 
hardly worth the trouble she gave; but both 
made the best of her, as they did of all their 
troubles. 

‘This very exacting member of the fold ap- 
peared to be endowed with a sixth sense, in re- 
gard of knowing when the Reverend Frank Mil- 
vey least desired her company, and with prompti- 
tude appearing in his little hall. Consequently, 
when the Reverend Frank had willingly engaged 


; that he and his wife would accompany Light- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Mr, Rokesmith goes with us?” he said, hesi- 
tating, with a look toward the door. 


321 


wood back, he said, as a matter of course: ** We 
must make haste to get out, Margaretta, my 
dear, or we shall be descended on by Mrs. 
Sprodgkin.” ‘To which Mrs. Milvey replied, in 
her pleasantly emphatic way, ‘‘Oh yes, for she 
is such a marplot, Frank, and does worry so!” 
Words that were scarcely uttered when their 
theme was announced as in faithful attendance 
below, desiring counsel on a spiritual matter. 
The points on which Mrs. Sprodgkin sought 
elucidation being seldom of a pressing nature 
(as Who begat Whom, or some information con- 
cerning the Amorites), Mrs. Milvey on this spe- 
cial occasion resorted to the device of buying her 
off with a present of tea and sugar, and a loaf 
and butter. ‘These gifts Mrs. Sprodgkin ac- 
cepted, but still insisted on dutifully remaining 
in the hall, to courtesy to the Reverend Frank 
as he came forth. Who, incantiously saying in 
his genial manner, ‘‘ Well, Sally, there you 
are!” involved himself in a discursive address 
from Mrs. Sprodgkin, revolving around the re- 
sult that she regarded tea and sugar in the light 
of myrrh and frankincense, and considered bread 
and butter identical with locusts and wild honey. 
Having communicated this edifying piece of in- 
formation, Mrs. Sprodgkin was left still unad- 
journed in the hall, and Mr. and Mrs. Milvey 
hurried in a heated condition to the railway sta~- 
tion. All of which is here recorded to the honor 
of that good Christian pair, representatives of 
hundreds of other good Christian pairs as con- 
scientious and as useful, who merge the small- 
ness of their work in its greatness, and feel in 
no danger of losing dignity when they adapt 
‘themselves to incomprehensible humbugs. 

‘¢Detained at the last moment by one who 
had a claim upon me,” was the Reverend Frank’s 
apology -to Lightwood, taking no thought of 
himself. To which Mrs. Milvey added, taking 
thought for him, like the championing little wife 
she was; ‘Oh yes, detained at the last moment. 
But as to the claim, Frank, I must say that I do 
think you are over-considerate sometimes, and 
allow that to be a Little abused.” 

Bella felt conscious, in spite of her late pledge 
for herself, that her husband’s absence would 
give disagreeable oceasion for surprise to the 
Milveys. Nor could she appear quite at her 
ease when Mrs. Milvey asked: 

‘¢ How is Mr. Rokesmith, and zs he gone be- 
fore us, or does he follow us ?” 

It becoming necessary, upon this, to send him 
to bed again and hold him in waiting to be 
lanced again, Bella did it. But not half as well 
on the second occasion as on the first; for, a 
twice-told white one seems almost to become a 
black one, when you are not used to it. 

“‘Oh dear!” said Mrs. Milvey, ‘‘I am so 
sorry! Mr. Rokesmith took such an interest in 
Lizzie Hexam, when we were there before. And 
if we had only known of his face, we could have 
given him something that would have kept it 
down long enough for so short a purpose.”’ 

By way of making the white one whiter, Bella 
hastened to stipulate that he was not in pain, 
Mrs. Milvey was so glad of it. 

“T don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Milvey, 
‘Cand I am sure you don’t, Frank, but the clergy 
and their wives seem to cause swelled faces. 
Whenever I take notice of a child in the school, 
it seems to me as if its face swelled instantly. 


Frank never makes acquaintance with a new old 


329 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


woman, but she gets the face-ache. And an- 
other thing is, we do make the poor children | 
sniff so. I don’t know how we do it, and I 
should be so glad not to; but the more we take 
notice of them, the more they sniff. Just as 
they do when the text is given out.—Frank, 
that’s a schoolmaster. I have seen him some- 
where. 

The reference was to a young man of reserved 
appearance, ina coat and waistcoat of black, 
and pantaloons of pepper and salt. He had 
come into the office of the station, from its in- 
terior, in an unsettled way, immediately after 
Lightwood had gone out to the train; and he 
had been hurriedly reading the printed bills and 
notices on the wall. He had had a wandering 
interest in what was said among the people wait- 
ing there and passing toand fro. He had drawn 
hearer, at about the time when Mrs. Milvey 
mentioned Lizzie Hexam, and had- remained 
near since: though always glancing toward the 
door by which Lightwood had gone out. He 
stood with his back toward them, and his gloved 
hands clasped behind him. There was now so 
evident a faltering upon him, expressive of in- 
decision whether or no he should express his 
having heard himself referred to, that Mr. Mil-. 
vey spoke to him. 

“‘T can not recall your name,” he said, ‘‘ but 
I remember to have seen you in your school.” 

.“* My name is Bradley Headstone, Sir,” he re- 
plied, backing into a more retired place. 

‘*T ought to have remembered it,” said: Mr. 
Milvey, giving him his hand. “TI hope you are 
well? <A little overworked, I am afraid ?” 

‘* Yes, I am overworked just at present, Sir.” 

‘‘Had no play in your last holiday time?” 

SING Rite. 

** All work and no play, Mr. Headstone, will 
not make dullness, in your case, I dare say; 
but it will make dyspepsia, if you don’t take 
care.” . 

‘*T will endeavor to take care, Sir. Might 
I beg leave to speak to you, outside, a mo- 
ment ?” . 

‘* By all means.” 

It was evening, and the office was well lighted. 
The schoolmaster, who had never remitted his 
watch on Lightwood’s door, now moved by an- 
other door to a corner without, where there was 
more shadow than light; and said, plucking at 
his gloves: 

**One of your ladies, Sir, mentioned within 
my hearing a name that I am acquainted with; 
I may say, well acquainted with. The name of 
the sister of an old pupil of mine. He was my 
pupil for a long time, and has got on and gone 
upward rapidly. The name of Hexam. The 
name of Lizzie Hexam.” He seemed to be a 
shy man, struggling against nervousness, and 
spoke in a very constrained way. The break he 
set between his two last sentences was quite em- 
barrassing to his hearer. 

‘* Yes,” replied Mr, Milvey. ‘‘ We are going 
down to see her.” 

‘‘f gathered as much, Sir. I hope there is 
nothing gis with the sister of my old pupil? 
I hope bereavement has befallen her. I 
hope she is in no affliction? Has lost no—rela- 


he answered in his usual open way. | 

‘*T am glad-to tell you, Mr. Headstone, that 
the sister of your old pupil has not sustained 
any such loss. You thought I might be going 
down to bury some one ?” ws 

‘* That may have been the connection of ideas, 
Sir, with your clerical character, but I was no€ 
conscious of it.—Then you are not, Sir?” 

A man with a very odd manner indeed, and 
with a lurking look that was quite oppressive. 

“No. In fact,” said Mr. Milvey, ‘‘ since you 
are so interested in the sister of your old pupil, 
I may as well tell you that Iam going down to 
marry her.” . 

The schoolmaster started back. 

‘*Not to marry her myself,” said Mr. Mil- 
vey, with a smile, ‘‘ because I have a wife al- 


wedding.” TaD Se 

Bradley Headstone caught hold of a pillar be- 
hind him. If Mr. Milvey knew an ashy face 
when he saw it, he saw it then, h 

‘*You are quite ill, Mr. Headstone!” 

“It is not much, Sir.. It will pass over very 
soon. I am accustomed to be seized with gid- 
diness. Don’t let me detain you, Sir; I stand 
in need of no assistance, I thank you. Much 
obliged by your sparing me these. minutes of 
your time.” 

As Mr. Milvey, who had no more minutes to 
spare, made a suitable reply and turned back 
into the office, he observed the schoolmaster to 
lean against the pillar with his hat in his hand, 
and to pull at his neekeloth as if he were trying 
to tear it off. The Reverend Frank accordingly 
directed the notice of one of the attendants to 
him, by saying: ‘*There is a person outside whe 
seems to be really ill, and to require some help, 
though he says he does not.” 

Lightwood had by this time secured their 


rung. ‘They took their seats, and were begin- 
ning to move out of the station, when the same 
attendant came ruining along the platform, look 
ing into all the carriages. 

“Oh! You are here, Sir!’ he said, spring- 
ing on the step, and holding the window-frame 
by his elbow, as the carriage moved. ‘‘ That 
person you pointed out to me is in a fit.” 

‘*T infer from what he told me that he is sub- 
ject to such attacks. He will come to, in the 
air, in a little while.” 

He was took very bad to be sure, and was 
biting and knocking about him (the man said) 
furiously. Would the gentleman give him) his 
card, as he had seen him first? The gentleman 


more of the man attacked than that he was a 
man of a very respectable occupation,,who had 
said he was out of health, as his appearanee 
would of itself have indicated. The attendant 
received the card, watched his opportunity for 
sliding down, slid down, and soitended. 

Then, the train rattled among the house-tops, 
and among the ragged sides of houses torn down 


and under the fruitful earth, until it shot across 


-bomb-shell, and gone again as if it had exploded 


tion ?” in the rush of smoke and steam and glare, A 


_ Mr. Milvey thought this a man with a very{ little more, and again it roared across the river, 


odd manner, and a dark downward look; but 


ready. To perform the marriage service at her — 


places, and the departure-bell was about to be 


did so, with the explanation that he knew no 


to make way for it, and over the swarming streets, 


the river: bursting over the qniet surface like a 


___— 


EP 


(ana 


a great rocket: spurning the watery turnings | 


and doublings with ineffable contempt, and go- 
ing straight to its end, as Father Time goes to 
his. To whom it is no matter what living wa- 
ters run high or low, reflect the heavenly lights 
and darknesses, produce their little growth of 
weeds and flowers, turn here, turn there, are 
noisy or still, are troubled or at rest, for their 
course has one sure termination, though their 
sources and devices are many. 

Then, a carriage ride succeeded, near the sol- 
emn river, stealing away by night, as all things 
steal away, by night and by day, so quietly yield- 
ing to the attraction of the loadstone rock of 
Eternity ; and the nearer they drew to the cham- 
ber where Eugene lay, the more they feared that 
they might find his wanderings done. At last 
they saw its dim light shining out, and it gave 
them hope: though Lightwood faltered as he 
thought; ‘‘If he were gone, she would still be 
sitting by him.” 


Z Ss 
ree 
= Sag 


EUGENE’S BEDSIDE. 


But he lay quiet, half in stupor, half in sleep. 
Bella, entering with a raised admonitory finger, 
kissed Lizzie softly, but said not a word. Nei- 
ther did any of them speak, but all sat down at 
the foot of the bed, silently waiting. And now, 
in this night-watch, mingling with the flow of 
the river and with,the rush of the train, came 
the questions into Bella’s mind again: What 
could be in the depths of that mystery of John’s? 
Why was it that he had never been seen by 
Mr. Lightwood, whom he still avoided? When 
would that trial come, through which her faith 
in, and her duty to, her dear husband, was to 
carry her, rendering him triumphant? For, 
that had been his term. Her passing through 
the trial was to make the man she loved with all 
her heart triumphant. Term not to sink out 
of sight in Bella’s breast. 

Far on in the night Eugene opened his eyes. 
He was sensible, and said at once: ‘‘ How does 
the time go? Has our Mortimer come hack ?” 


> 


324 


Lightwood was there immediately, to answer 


for himself. ‘* Yes, Eugene, and all is ready.” 

‘* Dear boy!” returned Eugene with a smile, 
“‘we both thank you heartily. Lizzie, tell 
them how welcome they are, and that I would 
be eloquent if I could.” 

“There is no need,” said Mr. Milvey. ‘*We 
know it. Are you better, Mr. Wrayburn ?” 

‘“‘T am much happier,” said Eugene. 

‘Much better too, I hope ?” 

Eugene turned his eyes toward Lizzie, as if 
to spare her, and answered nothing. 

Then, they all stood around the bed, and Mr. 
Milvey, opening his book, began the service ; so 
rarely associated with the shadow of death ; so 
inseparable in the mind from a flush of life and 
gayety and hope and health and joy. Bella 
thought how different from her own sunny little 
wedding, and wept. Mrs. Milvey overflowed 
with pity, and wept too. The dolls’. dress- 
maker, with her hands before her face, wept in 
her golden bower. Reading in a low clear 
voice, and bending over Eugene, who kept his 
eyes upon him, Mr. Milvey did his office with 
suitable simplicity. As the bridegroom could 
‘not move his hand, they touched his fingers with 
the ring, and so put it on the bride. When the 
two plighted their troth she laid her hand on 
his, and kept it there. When the ceremony was 
done, and all the rest departed from the room, 
she drew her arm under his head, and laid her 
own head down upon the pillow by his side. 

‘‘Undraw the curtains, my dear girl,” said 
Eugene, after a while, ‘‘and let us see our wed- 
ding-day.” 

The sun was rising, and his first rays struck 
into the room as she came back and put her 
lips to his. ‘‘I bless the day!” said Eugene. 
**T bless the day!” said Lizzie. 

“You have made a poor marriage of it, my 
sweet wife,” said Eugene. ‘‘ A shattered, grace- 
less fellow, stretched at his length here, and 
next to nothing for’you when you are a young 
widow.” 

‘“‘T have made the marriage that I would 
have given all the world to dare to hope for,” 
she replied. 

‘*You have thrown yourself away,” said Eu- 
gene, shaking his head. ‘‘ But you have fol- 
lowed the treasure of your heart. My justifica- 
tion is, that you had thrown that away first, 
dear girl!” 

““No. I had given it to you.” 

‘“'The same thing, my poor Lizzie!” 

‘‘Hush, hush! A very different thing.” 

There were tears in his eves, and she be- 
sought him toclose them. ‘‘ No,” said Eugene, 
again shaking his head; ‘‘let me look at you, 
Lizzie, while I can. You brave devoted girl! 
You heroine !”’ 

Her own eyes filled under his praises. And 
when he mustered strength to move his wounded 
head a very little way, and lay it on her bosom, 
the tears of both fell. 

‘*Lizzie,” said Eugene, after a_ silence: 
“‘when you see me wandering away from this 
refuge that I have so ill deserved, speak to me 
by my name, and [ think I shall come back.” 

‘* Yes, dear Eugene.” 

“There!” he exclaimed, smiling. ‘‘I should 
have gone then, but for that!” j 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


be sinking into insensibility, she said, in a calm 
loving voice: ‘* Eugene, my dear htsband!”? 
He immediately answered: ‘*There again! 
You see how you can recall me!” And, after- 
ward, when he could not speak, he still an- 
swered by a slight movement of his head upon 
her bosom. 

The sun was high in the sky when she gen- 
tly disengaged herself to give him the stimulants 
and nourishment he required. The utter help- 
lessness of the wreck of him that lay cast ashore 
there now alarmed her, but he himself appeared 
a little more hopeful. 

‘‘Ah, my beloved Lizzie!” he said, faintly. 


‘‘How shall I ever pay all I owe you, if I re-_ 


cover]? oY 

‘Don’t be ashamed of me,” she replied, ‘‘ and 
you will have more than paid all.” 

‘*It would require a life, Lizzie, to pay all; 
more than a life.” 

“‘Live for that, then; live for me, Eugene; 
live to see how hard I will try to improve my- 
self, and never to discredit you.” 

“My darling girl,” he replied, rallying more 
of his old manner than he had ever yet got to- 
gether. ‘‘QOn the contrary, I have been think- 
ing whether it is not the best thing I can do, to 
die.” 

‘“The best thing you can do, to leave me with 
a broken heart ?”’ 

“*T don’t mean that, my dear girl. I was not 
thinking of that. What I was thinking of was 
this. Out of your compassion for me, in this 
maimed and broken state, you make so much of 
me—you think so well of me—you love me so 


dearly.” 


‘Heaven knows I love you dearly !” 


‘*And Heaven knows I prize it! Well. If. 


I live, you'll find me out.” 

*‘T shall find out that my husband has’a mine 
of purpose and energy, and will turn it to the 
best account ?” 

‘‘T. hope so, dearest Lizzie,” said Eugene, 
wistfully, and yet somewhat whimsically, ‘I 
hope so. But I can’t summon the vanity to 
think so. Howcan I think so, looking back on 
such a trifling wasted youth as mine! I hum- 
bly hope it; but I daren’t believe it. Thereisa 


sharp misgiving in my conscience that if I were - 


to live I should disappoint your good opinion 
and my own—and that I ought to die, my dear !” 


PE ES ent a 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE PASSING SHADOW. 


THe winds and tides rose and fell a certain 
number of times, the earth moved round the sun 


a certain number of times, the ship upon the _ 


ocean made her voyage safely, and brought a 
baby-Bella home. Then who so blest and happy 
as Mrs. John Rokesmith, saving and excepting 
Mr. John Rokesmith ! 

‘‘ Would you not like to be rich now, my dar- 
ling ?” 

‘‘ How can you ask me such a question, John 
dear? AmInotrich?” ~— 


These were among the first words spoken near 


the baby-Bella as she lay asleep. She soon 
proved to be a baby of wonderful intelligence, 


A little while afterward, when he appeared to | evincing the strongest objection to her grand- 


A = = 
| pata WI ie A 
ee s NN 


325 


AH) 
I 


a 
I \ iF aly 5 
i ain) y 


AANA 
yk 
i 
i 
NS 
TSS 
SS 


se 


LIGHTWOOD AT LAST. 


326 


mother’s soeiety, and being invariably seized with 
a painful acidity of the stomach when that digni- 
fied lady honored her with any attention, 

It was charming to see Bella contemplating 
this baby, and finding out her own dimples in 
that tiny reflection, as if she were looking in-the 
glass without personal vanity. Her cherubic 
father justly remarked to her husband that the 
baby seemed to make her younger than before, 
reminding him of the days when she had a pet 
doll and used to talk to it as she carried it about, 
The world might have been challenged to pro- 
duce another baby who had such a store of pleas- 
ant nonsense said and sung to it, as Bella said 
and sung to this baby ; or who was dressed and 
undressed as often in four-and-twenty hours as 


Bella dressed and undressed this baby; or who | 


was held behind doors and poked out to stop its 
father’s way when he came home, as this baby 
was; or, in a word, who did half the number of 
baby things, through the lively invention of a 
gay and proud young mother, that this inex- 
haustible baby did. 

The inexhaustible baby was two or three 
months old when Bella began to notice a cloud 
upon her husband’s brow. Watching it, she 
saw a gathering and deepening anxicty there, 
which caused her great disquiet. More than 
ouce she awoke him muttering in his sleep; and, 
though he muttered nothing worse than her own 
name, it was plain to her that his restlessness 
originated in some load of care. Therefore, 
Bella at length put in her claim to divide this 
Joad, and bear her half of it. 


‘You know, John dear,” she said, cheerily | 


reverting to their former conversation, ‘‘that I 


hope I may safely be trusted in great things. 


And it surely can not be a little thing that causes 
you so much uneasiness. It’s very considerate 
of you to try to hide from me that you are un- 
comfortable about something, but it’s quite im- 
possible to be done, John love.” 

“‘f admit that I am rather uneasy, my own.” 

‘‘Then please to tell me what about, Sir.” 

But no, he. evaded that. ‘‘Never mind!” 
thought Bella, resolutely. ‘John requires me 
to put perfect faith in him, and he shall not be 
disappointed.” 

She went up to London one day to meet him, 
in order that they might make some purchases. 
She found him waiting for her at her journey’s 
end, and they walked away together through 
the streets. He was in gay spirits, though still 
harping on that notion of their being rich; and 
he said, now let them make believe that yonder 


fine carriage was theirs, and that it was waiting | 


to take them home to a fine house they iad: 
what would Bella, in that case, best like to find 
in the house? Well! Bella didn’t know: al- 
ready having every thing she wanted, she couldn’t 
say. But by degrees she was led on to confess 
that she would like to have for the inexhaustible 
baby such a nursery as never was seen. It was 
to be “a very rainbow for colors,” as she was 
quite sure baby noticed colors; and the stair- 
case was to be adorned with the most exquisite 
flowers, as she was absolutely certain baby no- 
ticed flowers; and there was to be an aviary 
some where, of the loveliest little birds, as there 


was not the smallest doubt in the world that | leave of me here. At all events,’? added Roke- _ 


at'a 


baby noticed birds. Was there nothing else ? 
No, John dear, The predilections of the inex- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


x h Byes i BN th 


haustible baby being 


provided for, Bella could 
think of nothing else, . 


: 


They were chatting on in this way, and John 


had suggested, ‘‘ No jewels for your own wear, 
for instance?” and Bella had replied, laughing. 
O! if he came to that, yes, there might be a 
beautiful ivory case of jewels on her dressing- 
table; when these pictures were in a moment 
darkened and blotted ont. 


They turned a corner, and met Mr. Light- 


wood. 

He stopped as if he were petrified by the sight 
of Bella’s husband, who in the same moment had 
changed color. 

‘‘ Mr. Lightwood and I have met before,” he 
said. ‘ 

‘* Met before, John ?” Bella repeated in a tone 
of wonder. ‘‘ My, Lightwood told me he had 
never seen you.” . 

‘«T did not then know that I had,” said Light- 
wood, discomposed on heraccount. ‘I believed 
that I had only’: heard of—Mr. Rokesmith.” 
With an emphasis on the name. ; 

‘““When Mr. Lightwood saw’ me, my love,” 
observed her husband, not avoiding his eye, but 
'looking at him, ‘‘my name was Julius Hand- 
ford.” 

Julius Handford! ~ The name that Bella had 
'so often seen in old newspapers, when she was 
an inmate of Mr. Boffin’s house! | Julius Hand- 


ford, who had been publicly entreated to appear, 


_ and for intelligence of whom a reward had been 
| publicly offered! 

‘*T would have avoided mentioning it in your 

presence,” said Lightwood to Bella, delicately ; 
_‘* but since your husband mentions it himself, 
I must confirm his strange admission. I saw 
him as Mr. Julius Handford, and I afterward 
(unquestionably to his knowledge) took great 
pains to trace him out.” 

“Quite true. But it was not my object or my 
interest,” said Rokesmith, quietly, ‘‘ to be traced 
out.” 

Bella looked from the one to the other in 

| amazement. 


‘* Mr. Lightwood,” pursued her husband, ‘‘ as. 


| chance has brought us face to face at last—which 
| is not to be wondered at, for the wonder is, that, 
in spite of all my pains to the contrary, chance 
has not confronted us together sooner—I have 
only to remind you that you have been at my 
house, and to add that I have not changed my 
| residence.” 

| ‘Sir,” returned Lightwood, with a meaning 


painful one. I hope that no complicity in a 
| very dark transaction may attach to you; but 
you can not fail to know that your own extraor- 
dinary conduct has laid you under suspicion.” 

‘*T know it has,” was all the reply. 

‘* My professional duty,” said Lightwood, hes- 
itating, with another glance toward Bella, ‘‘is 
greatly at variance with my personal inclination; 


whether I am justified in taking leave of you 
here, with your whole course unexplained.” 
Bella caught her husband by the hand. 
** Don’t be alarmed, my darling. 
wood will find that he is quite justifiedsin taking 


ismith, ‘‘he will find that I mean to take leave 
of him here.” may ty 


glance toward Bella, ‘‘my position is a truly . 


but I doubt, Mr. Handford, or Mr. Rokesmith, — 


Mr. Light-_ 


**T think, Sir,” said Lightwood, ‘‘you can 


a scarcely deny that when I came to your house 


on the occasion to which you have referred you 


_ ayoided me of a set purpose.” 
- . Mr, Lightwood, I assure you I have no dis- 


position to deny it, or intention to deny it. I 


should have continued to avoid you, in pursu- 


. Bella on his arm; 


ance of the same set purpose, for a short time 
longer, if we had not met now. I am going 
straight home, and shall remain at home to- 
morrow until noon. Hereafter I hope we may 
be better acquainted. Good-day.” 
Lightwood stood irresolute, but Bella’s hus- 
band passed him in the steadiest manner, with 
and they went home wight 
encountering any further remonstrance or/mol- 


‘estation from any one. 


When they had dined and were alone, John 


- Rokesmith said to his wife, who had preserved 
her cheerfulness: ‘‘ And you don’t ask me, my. 


dear, why I bore that name?” 

**No, John love. I should dearly like to 
know, of course” (which her anxions face con- 
firmed); “but I wait until you can tell me of 
your own free-will. You asked me if I could 


have perfect faith in you, and I said yes, and I 


meant it.” ; 

It did not escape Bella’s notice that he began 
to look triumphant. She wanted no strength- 
ening in her firmness; but if she had had need 
of any, she would have derived it from his kin- 
dling face. 

“You can not have been prepared, my dear- 
est, for such a discovery as that this mysterious 
Mr. Handford was identical with your hus- 
band?” ; Ba 

‘**No, John dear, of course not. But you 
told me to prepare to be tried, and I prepared 
myself.” 

He drew her to nestle closer to him, and told 
her it would soon be over and the truth would 
soon appear. “And now,” he went on, ‘lay 
stress, my dear, on these words that I am going 
to add. I stand in no kind of peril, and I can 


_ by possibility be hurt at no one’s hand.” 


“You are quite, quite sure of that, John 
dear ?” 

**Not a hair of my head! Moreover, I have 
done no wrong, and have injured no man. Shall 
IT swear it?” 

‘*No, John!” cried Bella, laying her hand 
upon his lips with a proud look: ‘‘Never to 
me!” 3 
‘* But circumstances,” he went on ‘*—TI can, 
and I will, disperse them in a moment—have 
surrounded me with one of the strangest sus- 
picions ever known. You heard Mr. Lightwood 
speak of a dark transaction ?” 

** Yes, John.” 

** You are prepared to hear explicitly what he 
meant ?”’ 

‘*Yes, John.” 

‘* My life, he meant the murder of John Har- 
mon, your allotted husband.” 

With a fast palpitating heart Bella grasped 
him by the arm. ‘‘You éan not be suspected, 
John?” 

*¢ Dear love, I can be—for I am!” 

There was silence between them as she sat 
looking in lis face, with the color quite gone 
from her own face and lips. ‘‘ How dare they !” 
she cried at length, in a burst of generous in- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


From her husband on her birthday’ 


327 


dignation. ‘‘My beloved husband, how dare 
they !” 

_ He caught her in his arms as she opened hers, 
and held her to his heart. “ Even knowing 
this, you can trust me, Bella ?” 

‘**T can trust you, John dear, with all my soul. 
If I could not trust you, I should fall dead at 
your feet.” 

The kindling triumph in his face was bright 
indeed as he looked up and rapturously exclaim- 
ed, what had he done to deserve the blessing of 
this dear, confiding creature’s heart! Again she 
put her hand upon his lips, saying, ** Hush!” 
and then told him, in her own little, natural, 
pathetic way, that if all the world were against 
him she would be for him; that if all the world 
repudiated him she would believe him; that if 
he were infamous in other eyes he would be 
honored in hers; and that, under the worst un- 
merifed suspicion, she would devote her life to 
consoling him, and imparting her own faith in 
him to their little child. 

A twilight calm of happiness then succeeding 
to their radiant noon, they remained at peace 
until a strange voice in the room startled them 
both. The room being by that time dark, the 
voice said, ‘Don’t let the lady be alarmed by 
my striking a light,” and immediately a match 
rattled and glimmered in a hand. The hand 
and the match and the voice were then seen by 
John Rokesmith to belong to Mr. Inspector, 
once meditatively active in this chronicle. 

‘*f take the liberty,” said Mr. Inspector, in a 
business-like manner, ‘‘to bring myself to the 
recollection of Mr. Julius Handford, who gave 
me his name and address down at our place a 
considerable time ago. Would the lady object 
to my lighting the pair of candles on the chim- 
ney-piece, to throw a further light upon the sub- 
ject? No? Thank you, ma’am. Now we look 
cheerful !” 

Mr. Inspector, in a dark-blue buttoned-up 
frock-coat and pantaloons, presented a servicea- 
ble, half-pay, Royal Arms kind of appearance, 
ashe applied his pocket-handkerchief to his nose 
and bowed to the lady. 

**'You favored me, Mr. Handford,” said Mr. 
Inspector, ‘‘by writing down your name and 
address, and I produce the piece of paper on 
which you wrote it. Comparing the same with 
the writing on the fly-leaf of this book on the 
table—and a sweet pretty volume it is—I find 
the writing of the entry, ‘Mrs. John Rokesmith. 
and very 
gratifying to the feelings such memorials are— 
to correspond exactly. Can I have a word with 


you ?” 


Here, if you please,” 


‘* Certainly. 
reply. 

‘¢ Why,” retorted Mr. Inspector, again using 
his pocket handkerchief, ‘‘ though there’s no- 
thing for the lady to be at all alarmed at, still, 
ladies are apt to take alarm at matters of busi- 
ness—being of that fragile sex that they’re not 
accustomed to them when not of a strictly do- 
mestic character—and I do generally make it a 
rule to propose retirement from the presence of 
ladies, before entering upon business topics. Or 
perhaps,” Mr. Inspector hinted, ‘‘if the lady was 
to step up stairs, and take a look at baby now!” 

“ Mrs. Rokesmith,” her husband was begin- 
ning; when Mr. Inspector, regarding the words 


was the 


* 


© 


328 


as an introduction, said, ‘‘ Happy, I am sure, to 
have the honor.” 

‘¢ Mrs, Rokesmith,” resumed her husband, ‘* is 
satisfied that she can have no reason for being 
alarmed, whatever the business is.” 

‘Really? Is that so?” said Mr. Inspector. 
**But it’s a sex to live and learn from, and 
there’s nothing a lady can’t. accomplish when she 
Once fully gives her mind to it. It’s the case 
with my own wife. Well, ma’am, this good 
gentleman of yours has given rise to a rather 
large amount of trouble which might have been 
avoided if he had come forward and explained 
himself. Well you see! He didn’t come for- 
ward and explain himself. Consequently, now 
that we meet, him and me, you'll say—and say 
right—that there’s nothing to be alarmed at, in 
my proposing to him to come forward—or, put- 
ting the same meaning in another form, to come 
along with me—and explain himself.” 

When Mr. Inspector put it in-that other form, 
**to come along with me,” there was a relishing 
roll in his voice, and his eye beamed with an 
official lustre. 

‘Do you propose to take me into custody ?” 
inquired John Rokesmith, very coolly. 

‘‘ Why argue?” returned Mr. Inspector in a 
comfortable sort of remonstrance ; ‘‘ain’t it 
enough that I propose that you shall come along 
with me?” 

“For what reason ?” 

‘* Lord bless my soul and body !” returned Mr. 
Inspector, ‘‘I wonder at it in a man of your 
education. Why argue ?” 

‘What do you charge against me ?” 

‘*I wonder at you before a lady,” said Mr. 
Inspector, shaking his head reproachfully: ‘+I 
wonder, brought up as you have been, you 
haven’t a more delicate mind! I charge yon, 
then, with being some way concerned in the 
Harmon Murder. I don’t say whether before, 
or in, or after, the fact. I don’t say whether 
with having some knowledge of it that hasn’t 
come out.” 

‘* You don’t surprise me. 
this afternoon.” 

**Don’t!” said Mr. Inspector. ‘‘ Why, why 
argue? It’s my duty to inform you that what- 
ever you say will be used against you.” 

**T don’t think it*will.” 

**But [ tell you it will,” said Mr. Inspector. 
‘* Now, having received the caution, do you still 
say that you foresaw my visit this afternoon ?” 

‘‘Yes. And I will say something more, if 
you will step with me into the next room.” 

With a reassuring kiss on the lips of the fright- 
ened Bella, her husband (to whom Mr. Inspector 
obligingly offered his arm) took up a candle 
and withdrew with that gentleman. They were 
a full half-hour in conference. When they re- 
turned Mr. Inspector looked considerably aston- 
ished. 

‘*T have invited this worthy officer, my dear,” 
said John, ‘‘to make a short excursion with me 
in which you shall be a sharer. He will take 
something to eat and drink, I dare say, on your 
invitation, while you are getting your bonnet 
ON! Ac . 

Mr. Inspector declined eating, but assented to 
the proposal of a glass of brandy and water. 
Mixing this cold, and pensively consuming it, 
he broke at intervals into such soliloquies as that 


I foresaw your visit 


TEE Stn Re Oy 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
4 


And bowed, with gallantry. — 


he never did know such a move, that he never 
had been so graveled, and that what a game was _ 
this to try the. sort of stuff a*man’s opinion of 
himself was made of! Concurrently with these 
comments, he more than once burst out a laugh- 
ing, with the half-enjoying and half-piqued air 
of a man who had given up a good conundrum, 
after much guessing, and been told the answer, 
Bella was so timid of him, that she noted these 
things in a half-shrinking, half-perceptive way, 
and similarly noted that there was a great change 
in his manner toward John. That coming-along- 
with-him deportment was now lost in long mus- 
ing looks at John and at herself, and sometimes 
in slow heavy rubs of his hand across his fore-- 
head, as if he were ironing out the creases which 
his deep pondering made there. He had had 


some coughing and whistling satellites secretly iy 
gravitating toward him about the premises, but if 
they were now dismissed, and he eyed John as 
if he had meant to do him a public service, but t 
had unfortunately been anticipated. Whether ~ 
Bella might have noted any thing more, if she 
had been less afraid of him, she could not de- ~ 
termine; but it was all inexplicable to her, and 


not the faintest flash of the real state of the case 
broke in upon her mind. | Mr. Inspector’s in- 
creased notice of herself, and knowing way of 
raising his eyebrows when their eyes by any 
chance met, as if he put the question ‘‘ Don’t 
you see?” augmented her timidity, and, conse- 
quently, her perplexity. For all these reasons, 
when he and she and John, at toward nine 
o'clock of a winter evening, went to London, and 
began driving from London Bridge, among low- 
lying water-side wharves and docks and strange 
places, Bella was in the state of a dreamer ; per- 
fectly unable to account for her being there, per- 
fectly unable to forecast what would happen — 
| next, or whither she was going, or why; certain 
of nothing in the immediate present, but that 
she confided in John, and that John seémed 
somehow to be getting more triumphant. But 
what a certainty was that! 

They alighted at last at the corner of a court, 
where there was a building with a bright lamp 
and a wicket gate. Its orderly appearance was 
very unlike that of the surrounding neighbor- 
hood, and was explained by the inscription Po- 
LICE STATION, 

‘*We are uot going in here, John?” said 
Bella, clinging to him. 

‘Yes, my dear; but of our own accord. We 
shall come out again as easily, never fear.” : 

The whitewashed room was pure white as of 
old, the methodical book-keeping was in peace- 
ful progress as of old, and some distant howler 
was banging against a cell door as of old. The 
sanctuary was not a permanent abiding-place; 
but a kind of criminal Pickford’s. The lower 
passions and vices were regularly ticked off in 
the books, warehoused in. the cells, carted away 
as per accompanying invoice, and left no mark 
upon it. ie 

Mr. Inspector placed two chairs for his visit- 
ors before the fire, and communed in a low voice 
with a brother of his order (also of a half-pay — 
and Royal Arms aspect), who, judged only by 
his oceupation at the moment, might have been 
a writing-master, setting copies. ‘Their confer 
ence done, Mr. Inspector returned to the fire- 
place, and, having observed that he would step ye 


ee 
abe 


+ ie 


round to the Fellowships and see how matters 
stood, went out. He soon came back again, 
saying, ‘‘ Nothing could be better, for they’re at 
Supper with Miss Abbey in the bar;” and then 
they all three went out together. 

Still, as in a dream, Bella found herself en- 
tering a snug old-fashioned public house, and 
found herself smuggled into a little three-cor- 
nered room nearly.opposite the bar of that es- 
tablishment. Mr. Inspector achieved the smug- 
gling of herself and John into this queer room, 
ealled Cozy in an inscription on the dooy, by 
entering in the narrow passage first in fe 
and suddenly turning round upon them with 

extended arms, as if they had been two sheep. 
The room was lighted for their reception. 

‘* Now,” said Mr. Inspector to John, turning 

_-the gas lower; ‘Tl mix with ’em in a casual 
way, and when I say Identification, perhaps 
you'll show yourself.” 

John nodded, and Mr. Inspector went alone 
to the half-door of the bar. From the dim door- 
way of Cozy, within which Bella and her hus- 
band stood, they could see a comfortable little 
party of three persons sitting at supper in the 
bar, and could hear every thing that was said. 

The three persons were Miss Abbey and two 
male guests. To whom collectively Mr. In- 
spector remarked that the weather was getting 
sharp for the time of year. 

“‘It need be sharp to suit your wits, Sir,” 
said Miss Abbey. ‘‘What have you got in 
hand now ?” 

“Thanking you for your compliment: not 
much, Miss Abbey,” was Mr. Inspector’s rejoin- 
der. 

‘Who have you got in Cozy?” asked Miss 
“Abbey. 

_**Only a gentleman and his wife, Miss.” 

“And who are they? If one may ask it with- 
eut detriment to your deep plans in the interests 
ef the honest public?” said Miss Abbey, proud 
of Mr. Inspector as an administrative genius. 

“They are strangers in this part of the town, 
Miss Abbey. They are waiting till I shall want 

the gentleman to show himself somewhere, for 
half a moment.” 

‘While they’re waiting,” said Miss Abbey, 
~ *couldn’t you join us?” ‘ 

Mr. Inspector immediately slipped into the 
bar, and sat down at the side of the half-door, 
with his back toward the passage, and directly 
facing the two guests. ‘‘I don’t take my sup- 
per till later in the night,” said he, ‘‘and there- 
fore I won’t disturb the compactness of\ the ta- 
‘ble. But I'll take a glass of flip, if that’s flip in 
the jug in the fender.” 

‘«That’s flip,” replied Miss Abbey, ‘‘ and it’s 
_my making, and if even you can find out better 

i shall be glad to know where.”’ Filling him, 
with hospitable hands, a steaming tumbler, Miss 
Abbey replaced the jug by the fire; the com- 
pany not having yet arrived at the flip stage of 
their supper, but being as yet skirmishing with 
strong ale. 

‘¢Ah—h!” cried Mr.-Inspector. ‘'That’s the 
smack! There’s not a Detective in the Force, 

* Miss Abbey, that could find out better stuff than 
that.” 

*¢Glad to hear you say so,” rejoined Miss Ab- 
bey. ‘‘You ought to know, if any body does.” 
Ore MY. J HAC aga Mr. Inspeetor contin- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


329 


ued, ‘I drink your health. Mr. Jacob Kibble, 
I drink yours. Hope you have made a prosper 
ous voyage home, gentlemen both.” _ 

Mr. Kibble, an unctuous broad man of few 
words and many mouthfuls, said, more briefly 
than pointedly, raising his ale to his lips: ‘‘Same 
to you.” Mr. Job Potterson, a semi-seafaring 
man of obliging demeanor, said, ‘‘ Thank you, 
Siri). 

‘*Lord bless my soul and body!” cried Mr. 
Inspector. ‘‘Talk of trades, Miss Abbey, and 
the way they set their marks on men” (a subject — 
which nobody had approached); who wouldn't 
know your brother to be a Steward! There’sa 
bright and ready twinkle in his eye, there’s a 
neatness in his action; there’s a smartness in his 
figure, there’s an air of reliability about him in 
case you wanted a basin, which points out the 
steward! And Mr. Kibble; ain’t he Passenger, 
allover? While there’s that mercantile cut upon 
him which would make you happy to give him 
credit for five hundred pound, don’t you see the 
salt sea shining on him too?” 

‘* You do, I dare say,” returned Miss Abbey, 
“but £ don’t. And as for stewarding, I think 
it’s time my brother gave that up, and took this 
House in hand on his sister’s retiring. The 
House will go to pieces if he don’t. I wouldn’t 
sell it for any money that could be told out, to a 
person that I couldn’t depend upon to be a Law 
to the Porters, as I have been.” 

‘There you’re right, Miss,” said Mr. Inspect- 
or.’ ‘*A better kept house is not known to our 
men. What do I say? Half so well a kept 
house is not known to our men. Show the Force 
the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters, and the Force 
—to a constable—will show you a piece of per- 
fection, Mr. Kibble.” 

That gentleman, with a very serious shake of 
his head, subscribed the article. 

‘¢And talk of Time slipping by you, as if it 
was an animal at rustic sports with its tail 
soaped,” said Mr. Inspector (again, a subject 
which nobody had approached); ‘‘why, well 
you may. Well you may. How has it slipped 
by us, since the time when Mr. Job Potterson 
here present, Mr. Jacob Kibble here present, 
and an Officer of the Force here present, first 
came together on a matter of Identification!” 

Bella’s husband stepped softly to the half-door 
of the bar, and stood there. 

“Flow has Time slipped by us,” Mr. Inspect- 
or went on, slowly, with his eyes narrowly ob- 
servant of the two guests, ‘‘since we three very 
men, at an Inquest in this very house—Mr. Kib- 
ble? Taken ill, Sir?” 

Mr. Kibble had staggered up, with his lower 
jaw dropped, catching Potterson by the shoul- 
der, and pointing to the half-door. He now 
cried out: ‘“‘Potterson! Look! Look there!’ 
Potterson started up, started back, and exclaim- 
ed: ‘‘ Heaven defend us, what’s that!’ Bella’s 
husband stepped back to Bella, took her in his 
arms (for she was terrified by the unintelligible 


. terror of the two men), and shut the door of the 


little room. A hurry of voices succeeded, in 
which Mr. Inspector’s voice was busiest; it grad- 
ually slackened and sank; and Mr. Inspector re- 
appeared. ‘‘Sharp’s the word, Sir!” he said, 
looking in with a knowing wink. ‘‘ We’ll get 
your lady out at once.” Immediately Bella and 
her husband were under the stars, making their 


330 


way back alone to the vehicle they had kept in 
waiting. 

All this was most extraordinary, and Bella 
could make nothing of it but that John was in 
the right. How in the right, and how suspect- 
ed of being in the wrong, she could not divine. 
Some vague idea that he had never really as- 
‘sumed the name of Handford, and that there 
was a remarkable likeness between him and that 
mysterious person, was her nearest approach to 
any definite explanation. But John was tri- 
umphant; that much was made apparent; and 
she could wait for the rest. 

When John came home to dinner next day 
he said, sitting down on the sofa by Bella and 
baby-Bella: ‘‘ My dear, I have a piece of news 
to tell you. I have left the China House.” 

As he seemed to like having left it, Bella took 
it for granted that there was no misfortune in 
the case. 

‘In a word, my love,” said John, ‘‘the China 
House is broken up and abolished. ‘There is no 
such thing any more.” 

“Then are you already in another House, 
John ?” . 

**Yes, my darling. I am in another way of 
business. And I am rather better off.” 

The inexhaustible baby was instantly made to 
congratulate him, and to say, with appropriate 
action on the part of a very limp arm and a 
speckled fist: ‘‘‘Three cheers, ladies and gem- 
plemorums. *“Hoo—ray !” 

‘*T am afraid, my life,” said John, ‘that you 
have become very much attached to this cot- 
tage 2?” 

‘¢ Afraid I have, John? Of course I have.” 

‘The reason why [I said afraid,” returned 
John, ‘‘is, because we must move.” 

**O John!” , 

*“Yes, my dear, we must move. We must 
have our head-quarters in London now. In 
short, there’s a dwelling-house rent-free, at- 
tached to my new position, and we must occupy 
it.” 

**That’s a gain, John.” 

‘* Yes, my dear, it is undoubtedly a gain.” 

He gave her a very blithe look, and a very 
sly look. Which occasioned the inexhaustible 
baby to square at him with the speckled fists, 
and demand in a threatening manner what he 
meant ? 

**My love, you said it was a gain, and I 
said it was a gain, A very innocent remark, 
surely.” bene: 

‘*T won’t,” said the inexhaustible baby, ‘‘ —al- 
low—you—to make—game—of—my—venera- 
ble—Ma.” At each division administering a 
soft facer with one of the speckled fists. 

John having stooped down to receive these 
punishing visitations, Bella asked him, would it 
be necessary to move soon? Why yes, indeed 
(said John), he did propose that they should 
move very soon. Taking the furniture with 
them, of course (said Bella)? Why, no (said 
John), the fact was, that the house was—in a 
sort of a kind of a way—furnished already. 

The inexhaustible baby, hearing this, resumed 
the offensive, and said: ‘* But there’s nd nursery 
for me, Sir. What do you mean, marble-heart- 
ed parent?” To which the marble-hearted pa- 


rent rejoined that there was a—sort of a kind| house and home, my deary !” 


“ap 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


of a—nursery, and it might be “made to do.” “a 
‘Made to do?” returned the Inexhaustible, ad- 


ministering more punishment; ‘‘what do you 
take me for?” And was then turned over on 


its back in Bella’s lap, and smothered with — 


kisses. 

‘‘But really, John dear,” said Bella, flushed 
in quite a lovely manner by these exercises, 
‘will the new house, just as it stands, do for 
baby? ‘That’s the question.” 

“*T felt that to be the question,” he returned, 
‘and therefore I arranged that you should come 
with me and look at it to-morrow morning.” 
Appointment made, accordingly, for Bella to go 
up with him to-morrow morning; John kissed ; 
and Bella delighted. ij 

When they reached London in pursuance of 
their little plan they took coach and drove west- 
ward. Not only drove westward, but drove inte 
that particular westward division which Bella 
had seen last when she turned her face from 
Mr. Boffin’s door. Not only drove into that 
particular division, but drove at last into that 
very street. Not only drove into that very street, 
but stopped at last at that very house. 

‘* John dear!’ cried Bella, looking out of 
window in a flutter. ‘‘Do you see where we 
are ?” ‘ 

‘Yes, my love. The coachman’s quite right.” 


The house-door was opened without any — 


knocking or ringing, and John promptly helped 
her out. The servant who stood holding thé 
door asked no question of John, neither did he 
go before them or follow them as they went 
straight up stairs. It was only her husband’s 
encircling arm, urging her on, that prevented 
Bella from stopping at the foot of the staircase. 
As they ascended, it was seen to be tastefully 
ornamented with most beautiful flowers. 

“OQ John!” said Bella, faintly. ‘‘ What does 
this mean ?” . 

‘* Nothing, my darling, nothing. Let us ge 
on.” ; 

Going on alittle higher, they came to a charm- 
ing aviary, in which a number of tropical birds, 
more gorgeous in color than the flowers, were 
flying about; and among those birds were gold 
and silver fish, and mosses, and water-lilies, and 
a fountain, and all manner of wonders. — 

‘*Q my dear John!” said Bella. ‘‘ What does 
this mean ?” 

‘Nothing, my darling, nothing. Let us go 
on.” ; 

They went on, until they came to adoor. As 
John put out his hand to open it, Bella caught 
his hand. 

‘*T don’t know what it means, but it’s too 
much for me. Hold me, John, love.” 


John caught her up in his arm, and lightly _ 


dashed into the room with her. 
Behold Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, beaming! 


sy, running to Bella with tears of joy pouring 
down her comely face, and folding her to her 
comfortable breast, with the words: “My deary 
deary, deary girl, that Noddy and me saw mar- 
ried and couldn’t wish joy to, or so much as speak 
to! My deary, deary, deary, wife of John and 
mother of his little child! My loving loving, 
bright bright, Pretty Pretty! Welcome to your 


Bers 
hold Mrs. Boffin clapping her hands in an ecsta-- 


x 
; 
* 


‘band.”’ 


-. more, I did! 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SHOWING HOW THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN 
TO SCATTER DUST. 


HELPED 


In all the first bewilderment of her wonder, 
the most bewilderingly wonderful thing to Bella 


-was the shining countenance of Mr. Boffin. 


That his wife should be joyous, open-hearted, 
and genial, or that her face should express every 
quality that was large and trusting, and no.quali- 
ty that was little or mean, was accordant with 
Bella’s experience. But that he, with a pgfiect 
ly beneficent air and a plump rosy face, should 


be standing there, looking at her and John, like | 
For, | 
how had he looked when she last saw him in that | 


some jovial good spirit, was marvelous. 


very room (it was the room in which she had 
given him that piece of her mind at parting), 


and what had become of all those crooked lines | 


of suspicion, avarice, and distrust, that twisted 
his visage then? 

Mrs. Boffin seated Bella on the large ottoman, 
and seated herself beside her, and John her hus- 
band seated himself on the other side of-her, and 
Mr. Boffin stood beaming at every one and every 
thing he could see, with surpassing jollity and 
enjoyment. Mrs. Boffin was then taken with a 
laughing fit of clapping her hands, and clapping 
her knees, and rocking herself to and fro, and 
then with another laughing fit of embracing Bel- 
la, and rocking her to and fro—both fits of con- 
siderable duration. 

**Old lady, old lady,” said.Mr. Boffin, at 
length; “‘ if-you don’t begin somebody else must.” 

“I'm agoing to begin, Noddy, my dear,” re- 
turned Mrs. Boffin. “Only it isn’t easy for a 
person to know where to begin, when a person is 
in this state of delight and happiness. Bella, my 
dear. Tell me, who’s this?’ 

‘‘Who is this?” repeated Bella. ‘‘ My hus- 

**Ah! But tell me his name, deary!” cried 
Mrs. Boffin. 

“ Rokesmith.” ! 

No, it ain’t!” cried Mrs. Boffin, clapping 
her hands, and shaking her head. ‘‘Not a bit 
of it.” : 

‘¢ Handford then,” suggested Bella. 

“*No, it ain’t!” cried Mrs. Boffin, again clap- 
ping her hands and shaking her head. ‘‘Nota 
bit of it.” 

‘* At least his name is John, I suppose ?” said 
Bella. 

“* Ah! I should think so, deary !” cried Mrs. 
Boffin. ‘‘I should hope so! Many and many 
is the time I have called him by his name of 
John. But what’s his other name, his true other 
name? Give a guess, my pretty!” 

**T can’t guess,” said Bella, turning her pale 
face from one to another. 

“7 could,” cried Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘and what’s 
I found him out, all in a flash as 
I may say, one night. Didn’t I, Noddy?” 

“Ay! That the old lady did!” said Mr. Bof- 
fin, with stout pride in the circumstance. 

‘* Harkee to me, deary,”’ pursued Mrs. Boffin, 


_-taking Bella’s hands between her own, and gen- 


tly beating on them from time totime. ‘‘It was 


_ after a particular night when John had been dis- 


appointed—as he thought—in his affections. It 
was after a night when John had made an offer 
to a certain young lady, and the certain young 


| 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 331 


lady had refused it. It was after a particular 


“night, when he felt himself cast-away-like, and 
had made up his mind to go seck his fortune. It 


was the very next night. My Noddy wanted a 


| paper out of his Secretary’s room, and I says to 


Noddy, ‘I am going by the door, and I'll ask 
him for it.’ I tapped at his door, and he didn’t 
hear me. I looked in, and saw him a sitting 
lonely by his fire, brooding over it. He chanced 
to look up with a pleased kind of smile in my 
company when he saw me, and then in a single 
moment every grain of the gunpowder that had 
been lying sprinkled thick about him ever since 
I first set eyes upon him as a man at the Bower, 

took fire! Too many a time had I seen him sit-’ 
ting lonely, when he was a poor ehild, to be 

pitied, heart and hand! Too many a-time had 
I seen him in need of being brightened up with 
a comforting word! ‘Too many and too many 
a time to be mistaken, when that glimpse of him 
come at last! No, no! I just makes out to cry, 

‘I know you now! You're John!’ And he 
catches me as I drops.—So what,” said Mrs. 

Bofiin, breaking off in the rush of her speech to 

smile most radiantly, ‘‘might you think by this 
time that your husband’s name was, dear ?” 

** Not,” returned Bella, with quivering lips; 
“(not Harmon?. That’s not possible ?” 

‘*Don’t tremble. Why not possible, deary, 
when so many things are possible ?” demanded 
Mrs. Boffin, in a soothing tone. 

‘‘He was killed,” gasped Bella. 

“Thought to be,” said’ Mrs. Boffin. ‘But. 
if ever John Harmon drew the breath of life on 
earth, that is certainly John Harmon’s arm 
round your waist now, my pretty. If ever John 
Harmon had a wife on earth, that wife is cer- 
tainly you. If ever John Harmon and his wife 
had a child on earth, that child is certainly this.” 

By a master-stroke of secret arrangement the 
inexhaustible baby here appeared at the door, 
suspended in mid-air by invisible agency. Mrs. 
Boffin, plunging at it, brought. it to Bella’s lap, 
where both Mrs. and Mr. Boffin (as the say- 
ing is) ‘*took it out of” the Inexhaustible in 
a shower of caresses. It was only this timely 
appearance that kept Bella from swooning. 
This, and her husband’s earnestness in explain- 
ing further to her how it had come to pass that 
he had been supposed to be slain, and had even 


‘been suspected of his own murder; also, how 


he had put a pious frand upon her which had 
preyed upon his mind, as the time for its dis- 
closure approached, lest she might not make 
full allowance for the object’ with which it had 
originated, and in which it had fully developed. 

‘¢ But bless ye, my beauty!’ cried Mrs. Boffin, 
taking him up short at this point, with another 
hearty clap of her hands. ‘‘It wasn’t John only 
that was in it. We was all of us in it.” 

‘¢T don’t,” said Bella, looking vacantly from 
one to another, ‘‘ yet understand—” , 

‘SOF course you don’t, my deary,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Boffin. ‘How can you till you're told! 
So now I am agoing to tell you. So you put 
your two hands between my two hands again,” 
cried the comfortable creature, embracing her, 
‘with that blessed little picter lying on your 
lap, and you shall be told all the story. Now, 
I’m agoing to tell the story. Once, twice, three 
times, and the horses is off. Here they go! 
When I cries out that night, ‘I know you now, 


332 


youre John!’—which was my exact words; 
wasn’t they, John ?” : 

‘“‘Your exact words,” said John, laying his 
hand on hers. 

‘¢ That’s a very good arrangement,”’ cried Mrs, 
Boffin. ‘‘Keepitthere, John. And as we was 
all of us in it, Noddy you come and lay yours a 
top of his, and we won’t break the pile till the 
story’s done.” 

Mr. Boffin hitched up a chair and added his 
‘broad brown right hand to the heap. 

‘¢That’s capital!’ said Mrs. Boffin, giving it 
akiss. ‘‘ Seems quite a family building; don’t 
it? Butthe horses isoff. Well! WhenI cries 
out that night, ‘I know you now! you're John?’ 
John catches of me, it istrue; but I ain’t a light 
weight, bless ye, and he’s forced to let me down. 
Noddy, he hears a noise, and in he trots, and as 
soon as I anyways comes to myself I calls to him, 
‘ Noddy, well I might say as I did say, that night 
at the Bower, for the Lord be thankful this is 
John!’ On which he gives a heave, and down 
he goes likewise, with his head under the writ- 
ing-table. This brings me round comfortable, 
and that brings him round comfortable, and 
then John and him and me we all fall a crying 
for joy.” 

““Yes! They ery for joy, my darling,” her 
husband struck in. ‘*‘Youunderstand? These 
two, whom I come to life to disappoint and dis- 
possess, cry for joy!” 

Bella looked at him confusedly, and looked 
again at Mrs. Boffin’s radiant face. 

‘¢'That’s right, my dear, don’t you mind him,” 
said Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘stick to me. Well! Then 
we sits down, gradually gets cool, and holds a 
confabulation. John, he tells us how he is de- 
spairing in his mind on accounts of a certain 
fair young person, and how, if I hadn’t found 
him out, he was'going away to seek his fortune 


far and wide, and had fully meant never to come | 


to life, but to leave the property as our wrongful 
inheritance forever and a day. At which you 
never see a man so frightened as my Noddy was. 
For to think that he should have come into the 


property wrongful, however innocent, and—more | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


| corner. 


than that—might-have gone on keeping it to his | 


dying day, turned him whiter than chalk.” 

‘* And you too,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘¢Don’t you mind him, neither, my deary,” re- 
sumed Mrs. Boffin; ‘‘stick tome. This brings 
up a confabulation regarding the certain fair 
young person; when Noddy he gives it as his 
opinion that she is a deary creetur. ‘She may 
be a leetle spoilt, and nat’rally spoilt,’ he says, 
“by circumstances, but that’s only on the sur- 
face, and I lay my life,’ he says, ‘that she’s the 
true golden gold at heart.’” 

‘¢So did you,” said Mr. Boffin. 

‘Don’t you mind him a single morsel, my 
dear,” proceeded Mrs. Boffin, ‘‘ but stick to me. 
Then says John, O, if he could but prove so! 
Then we hoth of us ups and says, that minute, 
‘Prove so!’ ” 

With a start Bella directed a hurried glance 
toward Mr. Boffin. But he was sitting thought- 
fully smiling at that broad brown hand of his, 
and either didn’t see it, or would take no notice 
of it. 

‘¢*Prove it, John!’ we says,” repeated Mrs. 
Boffin. ‘‘ ‘Prove it and overcome your doubts 
With triumph, and be happy for the first time in 


your life, and for the rest of your life.’ 
puts John in a state, to be sure. ‘Then we says, 
‘What will content you? If she was to stand 
up for you when you was slighted, if she was te 
show herself of a generous mind when you was 
oppressed, if she was to be truest to you when 
you was poorest and friendliest, and all this 
against her own seeming. interest, how would 
that do?? ‘Do? says John, ‘it would raise me 
to the skies.’ ‘Then,’ says my Noddy, ‘make 
your preparations for the ascent, John, it being 
my firm belief that up you go!’” 

Bella caught Mr. Boffin’s twinkling eye for 
half an instant; but he got it away from her 
and restored it to his broad brown hand. 

‘From the first you was always a special fa- 


vorite of Noddy’s,” said Mrs. Boffin, shaking 


her head. .‘¢O you were! And if I had been 
inclined to be jealous, I*don’t know what I 
mightn’t have done to you. But as I wasn’t— 
why, my beauty,” with a hearty laugh and an 
embrace, ‘‘I made you a special favorite of my 
own too. But the horses is coming round the 
Well! ‘Then says my Noddy, shaking 
his sides till he was fit to make ’em ache again: 
‘Look out for being slighted and oppressed, 
John, for if ever a man had a hard master you 
shall find me from this present time to be such 
to you.’ And then he began!” cried Mrs, Bof- 
fin, in an ecstasy of admiration. ‘‘ Lord bless 
you, then he began! And how he did begin; 
didn’t he!” 


Bella looked half frightened, and yet half 


laughed. 

‘But, bless you,” pursued Mrs. Boffin, ‘if 
you could have seen him of a night, at that time 
of it! The way he'd sit and chuckle over him- 
self! The way he’d say ‘I’ve been a regular 
brown bear to-day,’ and take himself in his arms 
and hug himself at the thoughts of the brute he 
had pretended! But every night he says to me; 
‘Better and better, old lady. What did we say 
of her? She'll come through it, the true golden 
gold. This’ll be the happiest piece of work we 
ever done.’ And then he’d say, ‘Tl be a griz- 
zlier old growler to-morrow!’ and laugh, he 
would, till John and me was often forced to 
slap his back, and bring it out of his windpipes 
with a little water.” 

Mr. Boffin, with his face bent over his heavy 
hand, made no sound, but rolled his shoulders 
when thus referred to as if he were vastly enjoy- 
ing himself. 

‘¢ And so, my good and pretty,” pursued Mrs. 
Boffin, ‘‘ you was married, and there was we hid 
up in the church-organ by this husband of yours ; 
for he wouldn’t let us out with it then, as was 
first meant. ‘No,’ he says, ‘she’s so unselfish 
and contented that I can’t afford to be rich yet. 
I must wait a little longer.’ Then, when baby 
was expected, he says, ‘She is such a cheerful, 


This 


: 


glorious housewife that I can’t afford to be rich — e 


yet. I must wait a little longer.’ Then, when 
baby was born, he says, ‘She is so much better 


than she ever was that I can’t afford to be rich 


yet. I must wait a little longer.’ 
goes on and on, till I says outright, ‘ Now, John, 


And so he 


if you don’t fix a time for setting her up in her — eB 


own house and home, and letting us walk ont | 
Then he says hell — 


of it, Ill turn Informer.’ 
only wait to triumph beyond what we ever 
thought possible, and to show her to us better 


* aa 


ee “i 


than even we ever supposed ; and he says, ‘She 
’ shall see me under suspicion of having murdered 
myself, and you shall see how trusting and how 
true she'll be.’ 
that, and he was right, and here you are, and 
the horses is in, and the story is done, and God 
bless you my Beauty, and God bless us all!” 

The pile of hands dispersed, and Bella and 
Mrs. Boffin took a good long hug of one another : 
to the apparent peril-of the inexhaustible baby, 
lying staring in Bella’s lap. : 

** But ts the story done?” said Bella, ponder- 
ing. ‘‘Is there no more of it?” 

‘‘What more of it should there be, deary ?” 
returned Mrs. Boffin, full of glee. 

** Are you sure you have left nothing out of 
it?” asked Bella. 

**T don’t think I have,’ said Mrs. Boffin, 
archly. 

“‘John dear,” said Bella, ‘‘you’re a good 
nurse; will you please hold baby?” 


those words, Bella looked hard at Mr. Boffin, 
who had moved to a table where he was leaning 
his head upon his hand with his face turned 
away, and, quietly settling herself on her knees 
at his side, and drawing one arm over his shoul- 
der, said: ‘‘ Please, I beg your pardon, and I 
made a small mistake of a word when I took 
leave of you last. Please I think you are better 
(not worse) than Hopkins, better (not worse) 
than Dancer, better (not worse) than Black- 
berry Jones, better (not worse) than any of 
them! Please something more!” cried Bella, 


with an exultant ringing laugh as she struggled | 
with him and forced him to turn his delighted 


face to hers. | ‘‘ Please I have found out some- 
thing not yet mentioned. Please I don’t believe 
you are a hard-hearted miser at all, and please 
I don’t-believe you ever for one single minute 
were I"? 

At this Mrs. Boffin fairly screamed with rap- 
ture, and sat beating her feet npon the floor, 


¢lapping her hands, and bobbing herself back- | 
ward and forward like a demented member of | 


some Mandarin’s family. 

“QO, I understand you now, Sir!” cried Bella. 
““T want neither you nor any one else to tell me 
the rest of the story. I can tell it to you, now, 
if you would like to hear it.” 

‘Can you, my dear?” said Mr. Boffin. “Tell 
it then.” 

‘* What?” cried Bella, holding him prisoner 
by the coat with both hands. ‘‘ When you saw 
what a greedy little wretch you were the patron 
of, you determined to show her how much mis- 
used and misprized riches could do, and often 
had done, to spoil people; did you? Not car- 
ing what she thought of vou (and Goodness 
knows that was of no consequence!) vou showed 
her, in yourself, the most detestable sides of 
wealth, saying in your own mind, ‘ This shallow 
creature would never work the truth out of her 
own weak soul, if she had a hundred vears to 
do it in; but a glaring instance kept before her 
may open even her eyes and set her thinking. 
That was what you said to yourself; was it, 
Sir?” 

**J never said any thing of the sort,” Mr. 
Boffin declared, in a state of the highest enjoy- 
ment. 

‘*'Then you ought to have said it, Sir,” re- 


Well! Noddy and me agreed to | 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


333 | 


turned Bella, giving him two pulls and one kiss, 


_‘*for you must have thought and meant it. You 


saw that good fortune was turning my stupid 
head and hardening my silly heart—was making. 
me grasping, calculating, insolent, insufferable 
——and you took the pains to be the dearest and 
kindest finger-post that ever was set up any 
where, pointing out the road that I was taking 
and the end it led to. Confess instantly !” 

‘* John,” said Mr. Boffin, one broad vicce of 
sunshine from head to foot, “I wish you’d help 
me out of this.” 

**You can’t be heard by counsel, Sir,” re- 
turned Bella. ‘You must speak for yourself, 
Confess instantly !” 

** Well, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin, ‘the truth 
is, that when we did go in for the little scheme 
that my old lady has pinted out, I did put it to 
John, what did he think of going in for some 


/such general scheme as you have pinted out? 


Having | 
deposited the Inexhaustible in his arms with 


But I didn’t in any way so word it, because I 
didn’t in any way so mean it. I only said to 
John, wouldn’t it be more consistent, me going 
in for being a reg’lar brown bear respecting him, 
to go in as a reg’lar brown bear all round ?” 

“Confess this minute, Sir,” said Bella, ‘that 
you did it to correct and amend me!” 

‘Certainly, my dear child,” said Mr. Boffin, 
‘J didn’t do it to harm you; you may be sure . 
of that. And I did hope it might just hint a. 
caution. Still, it ought to be mentioned that no 
sooner had my old lady found out Jobn, than 
John made known to her and me that he had 
had his eye upon a thankless person by the name 
of Silas Wegg. Partly for the punishment of 
which Wegg, by leading him on in a very un- 
handsome and underhanded game that he was 
playing, them books that you and.me bought so 
many of together (and, by-the-by, my dear, he © 
wasn’t Blackberry Jones, but Blewberry) was 
read aloud to me by that person of the name of 
Silas Wegg aforesaid.” 

Bella, whe was still on her knees at Mr. Bof- 
fin’s feet, gradually sank down into a sitting pos- 
ture on the ground, as she meditated more and 
more thoughtfully, with her eyes upon his beam- 
ing face. 


‘¢Still,”’ said Bella, after this meditative pause, 


‘there remain two things that I can not under- 


stand. Mrs. Boffin never supposed any part of 
the change in Mr. Boffin to be real; did she ?— 
You never did; did you?” asked Bella, turning 
to her. 

““No!” returned Mrs. Boffin, with a most ro- 
tund and glowing negative. 

‘¢And yet you took it very much to heart,” 
said Bella, ‘<I remember its making you very 
uneasy indeed.” 

‘¢Keod, you see Mrs. John has a sharp eye, 
John!” eried Mr. Boftin, shaking his head with 
anadmiring air. ‘‘ You're right, my dear. The 
old lady nearly blowed us into shivers and smith- 
ers, Many times.” 

‘©Why?” asked Bella. ‘* How did that hap- 
pen, when she was in your secret?” 

‘‘Why, it was a weakness in the old lady,” 
said Mr. Boffin; “and yet, to tell you the whole 
truth and nothing but the truth, I’m rather proud 
of it. My dear, the old lady thinks so high of 
me that she couldn’t abear to see and hear me 


coming out as a reg’lar brown one. Conldn’t 
abear to make-believe as I meant it! In conse- 


334 


quence of which, we was everlastingly in dan- 
ger with her.” 

Mrs. Boffin laughed heartily at herself; but a 
certain glistening in her honest eyes revealed that 
she was by no means cured of that dangerous 
propensity. 

‘‘T assure you, my dear,” said Mr. Boffin, 
¢¢ that on the celebrated day when I made what 
has since been agreed upon to be my grandest 
demonstration—I allude to Mew says the cat, 
Quack quack says the duck, and Bow-wow-wow 
says the dog—I assure you, my dear, that on 

¥that celebrated day, them flinty and unbelieving 
words hit my old lady so hard on my account, 
that I had to hold her, to prevent her running 
out after you, and defending me by saying I was 
playing a part.” 

Mrs. Boffin laughed heartily again, and her 
eyes glistened again, and it then appeared, not 
only that in that burst of sarcastic eloquence 
Mr. Boffin was considered by his two fellow-con- 
spirators to have outdone himself, but that in 
his own opinion it was a remarkable achievement. 
‘“‘Never thought of it afore the moment, my 
dear!” he observed to Bella. ‘‘When John 
said, if he had been so happy as to win your af- 
fections and possess your heart, it come into my 
head to turn round upon him with ‘ Win her af- 
fections and possess her heart! Mew says the 
cat, Quack quack says the duck, and Bow-wow- 
wow says the dog.’ I couldn’t tell you how it 
come into my head or where from, but it had so 
much the sound of a rasper that 1 own to you it 
astonished myself. I was awful nigh bursting 
out a laughing though, when it made John stare!” 

‘You said, my pretty,” Mrs. Boffin reminded 
Bella, ‘‘that there was one other thing you 
couldn’t understand.” 

‘<Q yes!” cried Bella, covering her face with 
her hands, ‘‘but that I never shall be able to 
understand as long as I live. It is, how John 
could love me so when I so little deserved it, and 
how you, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, could be so for- 
getful of yourselves, and take such pains and 
trouble, to make me a little better, and after all 
to help him to so unworthy a wife. But I am 
very, very grateful.” 

It was John Harmon’s turn then—John Har- 
mon now for good, and John Rokesmith for nev- 
ermore—to plead with her (quite unnecessarily ) 
in behalf of his deception, and to tell her, over 
and over again, that it had been prolonged by 
»her own winning graces in her supposed station 
of life. This led on to many interchanges of en- 
dearment and enjoyment on all sides, in the 
midst of which the Inexhaustible being observed 
staring, in a most imbecile manner, on Mrs. Bof- 
fin’s breast, was pronounced to be supernaturally 
intelligent as to the whole transaction, and was 
made to declare to the ladies and gemplemorums, 
with a wave of the speckled fist (with difficulty 
detached from an exceedingly short waist), *‘I 
have already informed my venerable Ma that I 
know all about it!” 

‘Phen, said John Harmon, would Mrs. John 
Harmon come and see her house? And a dainty 
house it was, and a tastefully beautiful; and 
they went throngh it in procession; the Inex- 
haustible on Mrs. Boffin’s bosom (still staring) 
occupying the middle station, and Mr. Boffin 
bringing upthe rear. And on Bella’s exquisite 
toilet-table was an ivory casket, and in the cask- 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Wegg felt too sensibly relieved by the close of 


et were jewels the like of which she had never 
dreamed of, and aloft on an upper floor was a 
nursery garnished as with rainbows; ‘‘ though 
we were hard put to it,” said John Harmon, ‘to 
get it done in so short a time.” 

The house inspected, emissaries removed the 
Inexhaustible, who was shortly afterward heard 
screaming among the rainbows ; whereupon Bella 
withdrew herself from the presence and knowl- 
edge of gemplemorums, and the screaming ceased, — 
and smiling Peace associated herself with that 
young olive branch. 

‘©Come and look in, Noddy!” said Mrs. Bof- i 
fin to Mr. Boffin. i 

Mr. Boffin, submitting to be led on tip-toe to Ng 
the nursery door, looked in with immense satis- 
faction, although there was nothing to see but 
Bella in a musing state of happiness, seated in 
a little low chair upon the hearth, with her child 


in her fair young arms, and her soft eyelashes iu 
shading her eyes from the fire. i 
‘Tt looks as if the old man’s spirit had found a 


rest at last; don’t it?” said Mrs. Boffin. 
“Yes, old lady.” ft 
‘¢ And as if his money had turned bright again, 9! 

after a long long rust in the dark, and was at 

last a beginning to sparkle in the sunlight ?” 
‘Yes, old lady.” ; %, 
‘s And it makes a pretty and a promising pie- q 


ter; don’t it?” or 
‘Yes, old lady.” i 
But, aware at the instant of a fine opening for ; 

a point, Mr. Boffin quenched that observation in 
this—delivered in the grizzliest growling of the * 
regular brown bear. ‘* A pretty and a hopeful ; 
picter? Mew, Quack quack, Bow-wow!” And ts 
then trotted silently down stairs, with his shoul . 
ders in a state of the liveliest commotion. “§ 
—— yy 


CHAPTER XIV. 
CHECKMATE TO THE FRIENDLY MOVE. 


Mr. and Mrs. John Harmon had so timed 
their taking possession of their rightful name 
and their London honse, that. the event befell on i 
the very day when the last wagon load of the i 
last Mound was driven out at the gates of Bof- 
fin’s Bower. As it jolted away Mr. Wegg felt 
that the last load was correspondingly removed 
from his mind, and hailed the auspicious season 
when that black sheep, Boffin, was to be closely 
sheared. 

Over the whole slow process of leveling the A 
Mounds Silas had kept watch with rapacious a 
eyes. But eyes no less rapacious had watched : 
the growth of the Mounds in years by-gone, and 
had vigilantly sifted the dust of which they were 
composed. No valuablesturned up. Howshould 
there be any, seeing that the old hard jailer of 
Harmony Jail had coined every waif and stray 
into money long before ? 

Though disappointed by this bare result, Mr. 


the labor to grumble to any great extent. A 
foreman representative of the dust contractors, 
purchasers of the Mounds, had worn Mr. Wegg 
down to skin and bone. ‘This supervisor of the 
proceedings, asserting his employers’ rights to 
cart off by daylight, nightlight, torehlight, when 
they would, must have been the death of Silas 


te i 


335 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


—— ‘| 


| 


NURSERY DOOR. 


MR. BOFFIN DOES THE HONORS OF THE 


eA 


¥ 


Ar ; hi, 4 : 


i) 


WiBEe WF 


if the work had lasted much longer. Seeming 
never to need sleep himself, he would reappear, 


with a tied-up broken head, in fantail hat and 


vélveteen smalls, like an accursed goblin, at 
the most unholy and untimely hours. Tired out 
by keeping close ward over a long day’s work in 
fog and rain, Silas would have just crawled to 
bed and be dozing, when a horrid shake and 
rumble under his pillow would announce an ap- 
proaching train of carts, escorted by this Demon 
of Unrest, to fall to work again. At another 
time, he would be rumbled up out of his sound- 
est sleep, in the dead of the night; at another, 
would be kept at his post eight-and-forty hours 
onend. The more his persecutor besought him 
not to trouble himself to turn out, the more sus- 
picious was the crafty Wegg that indications 
had been observed of something hidden some- 
where, and that attempts were en foot to cir- 
cumvent him. So continually broken was his 
rest through these means, that he led the life of 
having wagered to keep ten thousand dog-watch- 
es in ten thousand hours, and looked piteously 
upon himself as always getting up and yet never 
going to bed. §o gaunt and haggard had he 
grown at last, that his wooden leg showed dis- 
proportionate, and presented a thriving appear- 
ance in contrast with the rest of his plagued 
body, which might almost have been termed 
ehubby. 


However, Wegg’s comfort was,. that all his | 
disagreeables were now oyer, and that he was | 


immediately coming into his property. Of late, 
the grindstone did undoubtedly appear to have 
been whirling at his own nose rather than Bof- 


fin’s, but Boffin’s nose was now to be sharpened | 


fine. Thus far Mr. Wegg had let his dusty friend 
off lightly, having been balked in that amiable 
design of frequently dining with him, by the 
machinations of the sleepless dustman. He had 
been constrained to depute Mr. Venus to keep 
their dusty friend, Boffin, under inspection, while 
he himself turned lank and lean at the Bower. 

To Mr. Venus’s museum Mr. Wegg repaired 
when at length the Mounds were down and gone. 
It being evening, he found that gentleman, as 
he expected, seated over his fire; but did not 
find him, as he expected, floating his powerful 
mind in tea. 

‘*Why, you smell rather comfortable’ here !” 
said Wegg, seeming to take it ill, and stopping 
and sniffing as he entered. 

“*T am rather comfortable, Sir,’ said Venus, 

** You don’t use lemon in your business, do 
you?” asked Wegg, sniffing again. 

“No, Mr. Wegg,” said Venus. ‘‘ When I 
use it at all, I mostly use it in cobblers’ punch.” 

‘* What do you call cobblers’ punch ?” de- 
manded Wegg, in a worse humor than before. 

“It’s difficult to impart the receipt for it, Sir,” 
returned Venus, ‘‘ because, however particular 
you may be in allotting your materials, so much 
will still depend upon the individual gifts, and 
there being a feeling thrown into it. But the 
ground-work is gin.”’ 

‘In a Dutch bottle?” said Wegg, gloomily, 
as he sat himself down. 

‘* Very good, Sir, very good!” cried Venus. 
** Will you partake, Sir?” 

‘Will I partake ?” returned Wegg very surli- 
ly. “Why, of course I will! Wed a man par- 
take, as has been tormented out ef his five senses 


OUR’ MUTUAL BRIEND, FOR Oe 


‘sprightly manner, ‘‘] suspect you could hardly 


fretted out of your bed, and your sleep, and your “A 


5 


by an everlasting dustman with his head tied up! 
Will he, too! As if he woulda’t !” : 

‘‘Don’t let it put you out, Mr. Wegg. You 
don’t seem in your usual spirits.”’ 

‘* Tf you come to that, you don’t seem in your 
usual spirits,” growled Wegg. ‘You seem to 
be setting up for lively.” 

This circumstance appeared, in his then state 
of mind, to give Mr. Wegg uncommon offense. 

“* And you’ve. been having your hair cut!” 
said Wegg, missing the usual dusty shock. 

“Yes, Mr.Wegg. Butdon’t let that put you 
out, either.” \ 

‘¢ And I am blest if you ain’t getting fat!” 
said Wegg, with culminating discontent. ‘‘What 
are vou going to.do next ?” 

— Well, Mr. Wegg,” said Venus, smiling ina 


guess what I am going to do next.” 

‘*J don’t want to guess,” retorted Wegg. ‘All 
Pve.got to, say is, that it’s well for you that the 
diwision of labor has been what it has-been. 
It’s well for you to have had so light a part in’ 
this business, when mine has been so heavy. ) 
You haven’t had your rest broke, I’ll be bound.” 3 

‘*Not at all, Sir,” said Venus. ‘* Never rested . 
so well in all my life, I thank you.” a 

‘*Ah!” grumbled Wegg, ‘‘ you should have Mi 
been me. If you had been me, and had been 


meals, and your mind, for a stretch of months 
together, yowd have been out of condition and 
out of sorts.” 

‘* Certainly, it has trained you down, Mr. 
Wegg,” said Venus, contemplating his figure 
with an artist’s eye. “Trained you down very 
low, ithas! So weazen and yellow is the kiver- 
ing upon your bones, that one might almost 
fancy you had come to give a look-in upon the 
French gentleman in the corner, instead of me.” . 

Mr. Wegg, glancing in great dudgeon toward wh 
the French gentleman’s corner, seemed to notice ‘ho 
something new there, which induced him te 
glance at the opposite corner, and then to put 
on his glasses and stare at all the nooks and 
corners of the dim shop in succession. : 
‘* Why, you’ve been having the place cleaned 
1” he exclaimed. 

““Yes, Mr. Wegg. By the hand of adorable 
woman.” . 

**Then what you're going to do next, I sup-g 
pose, is to get married ?” 

‘¢'That’s it, Sir.” 

Silas took off his glasses again—finding him- 
self too intensely disgusted by the sprightly ap- 
pearance of his friend and partner to bear a 
magnified view of him—and made the inquiry :, 

“*'To the old party ?” 

“Mr, Wegg!” said Venus, with a sudden flush 
of wrath. ‘‘The lady in question is not a old 
party.” 

‘*J meant,” explained Wegg, testily, ‘‘to the 
party as formerly objected ?” 

‘‘Mr. Wegg,’’ said Venus, ‘‘in a case of so 
much delicacy, I must trouble you to say what 
you mean. There are strings that must not be 
played upon. No Sir! Not sounded, unless in 
the most respectful and tuneful manner. Of 
such melodious strings is Miss Pleasant Rider- 
hood formed.” 

‘‘Then it ts the lady as formerly objected ?” 
said Wegg. 


ap 


POL ge pe 


fae tee ae 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


Sir,” returned Venus with dignity, ‘‘I ac- 
eept the altered phrase. It is the lady as for- 
merly objected.” 

*¢ When is it to come off ?” asked Silas. 

‘¢Mr. Wegg,” said Venus, with another flush. 
“T can not permit it to be put in the form of a 
Fight. I must temperately but firmly call upon 
you, Sir; to amend that question.” 

‘¢When is the lady,” Wegg reluctantly de- 
manded, constraining’ his ill-temper in remem- 
brance of the partnership and its stock in td, 
‘‘agoing to give*her ’and where she has already 
given her ’art ?” 

‘“‘ Sir,” returned Venus, ‘*I again accept the 
altered phrase, and with pleasure. The lady is 
agoing to give her ’and where she has already 
given her ’art next Monday.” 

‘Then the lady’s objection has been met ?” 
said Silas. 

“Mr. Wegg,” said Venus, ‘‘as I did name 
to you, I think, on a former occasion, if not on 
former occasions—” 

<¢On former occasions,” interrupted Wegg. 

«_What,” pursued Venus, ‘‘ what the nature 
of the lady’s objection was, I may impart, with- 
out violating any of the tender confidences since 
sprung up between the lady and myself, how it 
has been met, through the kind interference of 
two good friends of mine: one, previously ac- 
quainted with the lady: and one, not. The 
pint was thrown out, Sir, by those two friends 
when they did me the great service of waiting 
on the lady to try if a union betwixt the lady 


and me could not be brought to bear—the pint, ’ 


I say, was thrown out by them, Sir, whether if, 
after marriage, I confined myself to the articu- 
lation of men, children, and the lower animals, 


_it might not relieve the lady’s mind of her feel- 


ing respecting being—as a lady—regarded in a 
bony light. It was a happy thought, Sir, and 
it took root.” 

‘¢Tt would seem, Mr. Venus,” observed Wegg, 
with a touch of distrust, ‘‘that you are flush of 
friends ?” 

“« Pretty well, Sir,” that gentleman answered, 
in atone of placid mystery. ‘‘So-so, Sir. Pretty 
well.” 

<¢ However,” said Wegg, after eying him 
with another touch of distrust, ‘‘I wish you joy. 
One man spends his fortune in one way, and 
another in another. You are going to try mat- 
rimony. I mean to try traveling.” 

‘‘Indeed, Mr. Wegg ?” 

‘¢ Change of air, sea-scenery, and my natural 
rest, I hope may bring me round after the per- 
secutions I have undergone from the dustman 
with his head tied up, which I just now men- 
tioned. The tough job being ended and the 
Mounds laid low, the hour is come for Boffin to 
stump up. Would ten to-morrow morning suit 
you, partner, for finally bringing Boffin’s nose 
to the grindstone ?” 

Ten to-morrow morning would quite suit Mr. 
Venus for that excellent purpose. 

‘¢You have had him well under inspection, I 
hope ?” said Silas. 

Mr. Venus had had him under inspection pretty 
well every day. 

‘¢Sappose you was just to step round to-night 
then, and give him orders from me—I say from 
me, because he knows J won’t be played with— 
to be ready with his papers, his accounts, and 


his cash, at that time in the morning?” said 
Wegg. ‘‘And as a matter of form, which will 
be agreeable to your own feelings, before we go 
out (for Pll walk wigh you part of the way, 
though my leg gives under me with weariness), 
let’s have a look at the stock in trade.” 

Mr. Venus produced it, and it was perfectly 


337 ai ate 


i 


correct; Mr. Venus undertook to produce it 


again in the morning, and to keep tryst with 
Mr. Wegg on Boffin’s doorstep as the clock struck 
ten. At a certain point of the road between 
Clerkenwell and Boffin’s house (Mr. Wegg ex- 
pressly insisted that there should be no prefix to 
the Golden Dustman’s name) thé partners sepa-} 
rated for the night. 

It was a very bad night; to which succeeded 
a very bad morning. ‘The streets were so un- 
usually slushy, muddy, and miserable, in the 
morning, that Wegg rode to the scene of action; 
arguing that a man who was, as it were, going 
to the Bank to draw out a handsome property 
could well afford that trifling expense. 

Venus was punctual, and Wegg undertook te 
knock ai the door and conduct the conference. 
Door knocked at. Door opened. 

‘¢ Botfin ‘at home?” 

The servant replied that Afr. Boffin was a 
home. ; 

“ Fell do,” said Wegg, ‘‘though it ain’t 
what I call him.” 

The servant inquired if they had any appoint- 
ment ? 

‘* Now I tell you what, young fellow,” said 
Wegg, ‘‘I won’t have it. This won't do for 
me. I don’t want menials. I want Boffin.” 

They were shown into a waiting-room, where 
the all-powerful Wegg wore his hat, and whis- 
tled, and with his forefinger stirred up a clock 
that stood upon the chimney-piece until he made 
it strike. In a few minutes they were shown up 
stairs into what used to be Boffin’s room ; which, 
besides the door of entrance, had folding-doors 
in it, to make it one of a suit of rooms when 
occasion required. Here Botfin was seated at a 
library-table, and here Mr. Wegg, having impe- 
riously motioned the servant to withdraw, drew 
up a chair and seated himself, in his hat, close 
beside him. Here also Mr. Wegg instantly un- 
derwent the remarkable experience of having 
his hat twitched off his head and thrown out of 
a window, which was opened and shut for the 
purpose. 

‘* Be careful what insolent liberties you take 
in that gentleman’s presence,” said the owner 
of the hand which had done this, ‘‘or I will 
throw you after it.” 

Wegg involuntarily clapped his hand to his 
bare head, and stared at the Secretary. For it 
was he addressed him with a severe counte- 
nance, and who had come in quietly by the fold- 
ing-doors. 

‘Qh! said Wegg, as soon as he recovered 
his suspended power of speech. ‘* Very good! 


> 


I gave directions for you to be dismissed. And 
you ain’t gone, ain’t you? Oh! We'll look 


into this presently. Very good!” 
‘*No, nor J ain’t gone,” said another voice. 
Somebody else had come in quietly by the 
folding-doors. Turning his head, Wegg beheld 
his persecutor, the ever-wakeful dustman, ac- 


-eoutred with fantail hat and velveteen smalls 


complete. Who, untying his tied-up broken 


Liha stat 


338 


head, revealed a head that was whole and a face 
that was Sloppy’s. 

‘*Ha, ha, ha, gentlemen!” roared Sloppy, in 
a peal of laughter, and with immeasurable rel- 
ish. ‘‘He never thought’as I could sleep stand- 
ing, and often done it when I turned for Mrs. 
Higden! He never thought as I used to give 
Mrs. Higden the Police-news in different voices! 
But I did lead him a life all through it, gentle- 
men, I hope I really and truly pip !”” Here Mr. 
Sloppy opening his mouth to a quite alarming 
extent, and throwing back his head to peal 
again, revealed incalculable buttons. 

‘*Oh!” said Wegg, slightly discomfited, but 
not much as yet: ‘fone and one is two not dis- 
miissed, is it? Bof—fin! Just let me ask a 
- question. Who set this chap on, in this dress, 
when the carting began? Who employed this 
fellow ?” 

‘‘Tsay!” remonstrated Sloppy, jerking his 
head forward. ‘* No fellows, or J'll throw you 
out of winder!” 

Mr. Boffin appeased him with a wave of his 
hand, and said: ‘*I employed him, Wegg.” 

‘*Oh! You employed him, Boffin? Very 
good. Mr. Venus, we raise our terms, and we 
can’t do better than proceed to business. Bof— 
fin! I want the room cleared of these two 
scum.” 

‘*'That’s not going to be done, Wegg,” replied 
Mr. Boftin, sitting composedly on the library- 
table, at one end, while the Secretary sat com- 
posedly on it at the other. 

‘‘ Bof—fin! Not going to be done?” repeat- 
ed Wegg. ‘* Not at your peril?” . 

“No, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, shaking his 
head good-humoredly. ‘*Not at my peril, and 
not on any other germs.” 

Wegg reflected a moment, and then said: 
‘Mr. Venus, will you be so good as hand me 
over that same dockyment ?” 


** Certainly, Sir,” replied Venus, handing it. 


to him with much politeness, ‘‘ There it is. 
Having now, Sir, parted with it, I wish to make 
a small observation: not so much because it is 
any ways necessary, or expresses any new doc- 
trine or discovery, as because it is a comfort to 
my mind. Silas Wegg, you are a precious old 
rascal,” 

Mr. Wegg, who, as if anticipating a compli- 
ment, had been beating time with the ‘paper to 
the other’s politeness until this unexpected con- 
clusion came upon him, stopped rather abruptly. 

“Silas Wegg,” said Venus, ‘‘know that I 
took the liberty of taking Mr. Boffin into our 
concern, as a sleeping partner, at a very early 
period of our firm’s existence.” 

**Quite true,” added Mr. Boffin; ‘‘and I 
tested Venus by making him a pretended pro- 
posal or two; and I found him on the whole a 
very honest man, Wegg.”’ 

‘* So Mr. Boffin, in his indulgence, is pleased 
to say,” Venus remarked: ‘‘though in the be- 
ginning of this dirt my hands were not, for a few 
hours, quite as clean as I could wish. But I 
hope I made early and full amends.” 

** Venus, you did,” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘ Cer- 
tainly, certainly, certainly.” 

Venus inclined his head with respect and grat- 
itude. ‘‘Thank you, Sir. Iam much obliged 
to you. Sir, for all. For your good opinion now, 
for your way of receiving and encouraging me 


ee, 1” keh 
eo hie ieee 


OUR‘\MUTUAL FRIEND; 


“ae 


when I first put myself in communication with 
you, and for the influence since so kindly brought * 


to bear upon a certain lady, both by yourself and 
by Mr. John Harmon.” ‘To whom, when thus 
making mention of him, he also bowed. 

Wegg followed the name with sharp ears and 
the action with sharp eyes, and a certain cring- 
ing air was infusing itself into his bullying air, 
when his attention was re-claimed by Venus. 

‘““Kivery thing else between you and me, Mr. 
Wegg,” said Venus, ‘‘ now explains itself, and 
you can now make out, Sir, without further 
words from me. But totally to prevent any un- 
pleasantness or mistake that might arise on what 
I consider an important point, to be made quite 
clear at the close of our acquaintance, I beg the 
leave of Mr. Boffin and Mr. John Harmon to 
repeat an observation which I have already had 
the pleasure of bringing under your notice. 
are a precious old rascal !” 

‘*You are a fool,” said Wegg, with a snap 
of his fingers, ‘‘and [I'd have got rid of you be- 
fore now, if I could have struck out any way of 
doing it. I have thought it over, I can tell you. 
You may go, and welcome. You leave the more 
for me. Because, you know,” said Wegg, di- 
viding his next observation between Mr. Boffin 
and Mr. Harmon, ‘‘I am worth my price, and 
I mean to have it. This getting off is all very 
well in its way, and it tells with such an ana- 
tomical Pump as this one,” pointing out Mr. 
Venus, ‘‘but it won’t do with a Man. I am 
here to be bought off, and I have named my 
figure. Now, buy me, or leave me.” 

“Pll leave you, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, 
Jaughing, ‘‘as far as I am concerned.” 

‘* Bof—fin !” replied Wegg, turning upon him 
with a severe air, ‘‘I understand your new-born 
boldness. I see the brass underneath your sil- 
ver. You have got your nose put out of joint. 
Knowing that you’ve nothing at stake, you can 
afford to come the independent game. Why, 
you're just so much smeary glass to see through, 
you know! But Mr. Harmon is in another sit- 
iwation. What Mr. Harmon risks is quite an- 
other pair of shoes. Now, I’ve heerd something 
lately about this being Mr. Harmon—I make out 
now some hints that ’'ve met on that subject 
in the newspaper—and I drop you, Bof—fin, as 
beneath my notice. J ask Mr. Harmon whether 
he has any idea of the contents of this present 
paper ?” 

**It is a will of my late father’s, of more re- 
cent date than the will proved by Mr. Boffin 
(address whom again, as you have addressed 
him already, and I’ll knock you down), leaving 
the whole of his property to the Crown,” said 
John Harmon, with as much indifference as was 
compatible with extreme sternness. 

“Right you are!” cried Wegg. ‘Then,’ 
screwing the weight of his body upon his wood- 
en leg, and screwing his wooden head very much 
on one side, and screwing up one eye: ‘‘ then, 
I put the question to you, what’s this paper 
worth?” 

“‘Nothing,” said John Harmon. 

Wegg had repeated the word with a sneer, 
and was entering on some sarcastic retort, when, 
to his boundless amazement, he found himself 
gripped by the cravat; shaken until his teeth 


chattered; shoved back, staggering, into a'cor- — 


ner of the room; and pinned there. 


You | 


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‘OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 


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THE DUTCH BOTTLE. 


340 


“You scoundrel!” said John Harmon, whose 
sea-faring hold was like that of a vice. 

‘You’re knocking my head against the wall,” 
urged Silas, faintly. 

‘‘T mean to knock your head against the 
wall,” returned John Harmon, suiting his ac- 
tion to his words, with the heartiest good-will ; 
‘and I’d give a thousand pounds for leave to 
knock your brains out, Listen, you scoundrel, 
and look at that Dutch bottle.” 

Sloppy held it up, for his edification. 

‘¢That Dutch bottle, scoundrel, contained the 
latest will of the many wills made by my unhap- 
py self-tormenting father. ‘That will gives ev- 
- ery thing absolutely to my noble benefactor and 
- yours, Mr. Boffin, excluding and reviling me, 
and my sister (then already.dead of a broken 
heart), by name. That Dutch bottle was found 
by my noble benefactor and yours, after he en- 
tered on possession of the estate. That Dutch 
bottle distressed him beyond measure, because, 
though I and my sister were both no more, it 
cast a slur upon our memory which he knew we 


had done nothing in our miserable youth to de- | 


serve. ‘That Dutch bottle, therefore, he buried 
in the Mound belonging to him, and there it lay 
while you, you thankless wretch, were prodding 
and poking—often very near it, I dare s: ry. His 
intention was, that it should never see the light , 
but he was afraid to destroy it, lest to destroy 
such a document, even with his great generous 
motive, might be an offense at law. After the 
discovery was made here who I was, Mr. Boffin, 
still restless on the subject, told me, upon cer- 
tain conditions impossible for such a hound as 
you to appreciate, the secret of that Dutch bot- 
tle. Lurged upon him the necessity of its being 
dug up, and the paper being legally produced 
and established. The first thing vou saw him 
do, and the second thing has been done without 
your knowledge. Consequently, the paper now 
rattling in your hand as I shake you—and I 
should like to shake the life out of you—is worth 
less than the rotten cork of the Dutch bottle, do 
you understand ?” 

Judging from the fallen countenance of Silas 
as his head wagged backward and forward in a 
most uncomfortable manner, he did understand, 

“Now, scoundrel,” said John Harmon, tak- 
ing another sailor-like turn on his cravat and 
holding him in his corner at arm’s-length, ‘I 
shall make two more short speeches to you, be- 
cause I hope they will torment you. Your dis- 
covery was a genuine discovery (such as it was), 
for nobody had thought of- looking into that 
place, Neither did we know you had made it 
until Venus spoke to Mr. Boffin, though I kept 
you under good observation from my first ap- 
pearance here, and though Sloppy has long made 
it the chief occupation and delight of his life to 
attend you like your shadow. I tell you this, 
that you may know we knew enough of you to 
persuade Mr. Boffin to let us lead you on, de- 
luded, to the last possible moment, in order that 
your disappointment might be the heaviest pos- 
sible disappointment. That’s the first short 
speech, do you understand ?” 

Here John Harmon assisted his comprehen- 
sion with another shake. 

‘*Now, scoundrel,” he pursued, ‘‘I am going 


to finish. You supposed me just now to be the 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


But through any act of my father’s, or by any 


right I have? No. 
of Mr. Boffin. 
with me, before parting with the secret of the 
Dutch bottle, were, that I should take the for. 
tune, and that he should take his Mound and no 
more. I owe every thing I possess solely to the 
disinterestedness, ‘uprightness, tenderness, good- 
ness (there are no words to satisfy me) of Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin. 
knew, I saw such a mud-worm as you presume 
to rise in this house against this noble soul, the 
wonder is,’ added John Harmon through his 
clenched teeth, and with a very ugly turn in- 
deed on Wegg’s cravat, ‘‘ that I didn’t try to 
twist your head off, and fling that out of win- 
dow! So. That’s the last short speech, do you 
understand ?” 

Silas, released, put his hand to his throat, 
cleared it, and looked asif he had a rather large 
fish bone in that region. Simultaneously with 
this action on his part in his corner, a singular, 
and on the surface an incomprehensible, move- 
/ment was made by Mr. Sloppy: who began back- 
ing toward Mr. Wegg along the wall, in the 
-manner of a porter or heaver who is about to lift 
a sack of flour or coals. 

‘¢T am sorry, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, in his 
clemency, ‘‘ that my old lady and I can’t havea 
‘better opinion of yon than the bad one we are 
forced to entertain. 
leave you, after all said and done, worse off in 
‘life than I found you. Therefore say in a word, 


Through the niuiificencel 


another stall.’’ 

*¢ And in another place,” John Harmon struck 
in. ‘* You don’t come outside these windows.” 

“Mr. Boffin,” returned Wegg. in avaricious 
humiliation: “when I first had the honor of 
making your acquaintance, I had got together a 
collection of ballads which was, I may say, above 
price.” 

“Then they can’t be paid for,” said John 
Harmon, ‘and you had better not try, my dear 
Sir.” 

‘**Pardon me, Mr. Boffin,’ 
with a malignant glance in the last speaker's di- 
rection, ‘‘I was putting the case to you, who, if 
my senses did not deceive me, put the case to 
me. I had a very choice collection of ballads, 
and there was a new stock of gingerbread in the 
tin box. Isay no more, but would rather leave 
it to you.” 

“But it’s difficult to name what’s right,” said 
Mr. Boffin uneasily, with his hand in his pocket, 

‘‘and I don’t want to go beyond what's right, 
because you really have turned out such a very 
bad customer. So artful, and so ungrateful you 
have been, Wegg; for when did I ever injure 

ou?” 

‘““There was also,” 
meditative manner, ‘‘a errand connection, in 
which I was much respected. But I would not 


wish to be deemed covetuous, and I would rather — ‘ 


leave it to you, Mr. Boffin.” 

‘*Upon my word, I don’t know what to put it 
at,”’ the Golden Dustman muttered. 

"There was likewise,” resumed Wegg, ‘a 
pair of trestles, for which alone a Irish person, 
who was deemed a judge of trestles, offered five 


possessor of my father’s property.k—So I am. , have lost by it—and there was a stool, a um- 


“The conditions that he made - 


But I shouldn’t like to 


before we part, what it’ll cost to set you up in 


* resumed Weegg, ~ 


Mr. Wegg went on, in a. 


. 


_ And when, knowing what I 


D 


& 


kaey! 


and six—a sum I would not hear of, for I should 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 341 
brella, a clothes-horse, and a tray. But I leave | den, or the overweighted slave, can for certain 
it to you, Mr. Boffin.” instants shift the physical load,'and find some 


The Golden Dustman seeming to be engaged | slight respite even in enforcing additional pain 
in some abstruse calculation, Mr. Wegg assisted | upon such a set of muscles or such a limb. 
him with the following additional items. Not even that poor mockery of relief could the 

** There was, further, Miss Elizabeth, Master | wretched man obtain, under the steady pressure 
George, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Parker. Ah! | of the infernal atmosphere into which he had 
When a man thinks of the loss of such patron- | entered, | 
age as that; when a man finds so fair a garden |, ‘lime.went by, and no visible suspicion dogged 
rooted up by pigs; he finds it hard indeed, withy\ him ; time went by, and in such public accounts 
out going high, to work it into money. But/I| of the attack as were renewed at intervals, he 
leave it wholly to you, Sir.” began to see Mr. Lightwood (who acted as law- 

Mr Sloppy still continued his singular, and | yer for the injured man) straying further from 
on the surface his incomprehensible, movement. | the fact, going wider of the issue, and evidently 

‘¢ Leading on has been mentioned,” said Wegg, | slackening in his zeal. By degrees a glimmer- 
with a melancholy air, ‘‘ and it’s not easy to say | ing of the cause of this began to break on Brad- 
how far the tone of my mind may have been | ley’s sight. Then came the chance encounter 
lowered by unwholesome reading on the subject | with Mr. Milvey at the railway station (where 
of Misers, when you was leading me and others | he often lingered in his leisure hours, as a place 
on to think you one yourself, Sir. All I can say | where any fresh news of his deed would be cir- 
is, that I felt my tone of mind a lowering at the | culated, or any placard referring to it would be 
time. And how can aman puta price upon his | posted), and then he saw in the light what he 
mind! There was likewise a hat just now. But | had brought about. 


I leave the ole to you, Mr. Boffin.” For then he saw that through his.desperate 
‘*Come!” said Mr. Boffin. ‘‘Here’sacouple | attempt to separate those two forever he had 
of pound.” been made the means of uniting them. ‘That he 


‘¢In justice to myself, I couldn’t take it, Sir.” | had dipped his hands in blood to mark himself 

The words were but out of his mouth when | a miserable fool and tool. That Eugene Wray- 
John Harmon lifted his finger, and Sloppy, who | burn, for his wife’s sake, set him aside and left 
was now close to Wegg, backed to Wegg’s back, |} him to crawl along his blasted course. He 
stooped, grasped his coat collar behind with both | thought of Fate, or Providence, or be the di- 
hands, and deftly swung him up like the sack | recting Power what it might, as having put a 
of flour or coals before mentioned. A counte- | fraud upon him—overreached him—and in his 
nance of special discontent and amazement Mr. | impotent mad rage bit, and tore, and had his fit. 
Weegg exhibited in this position, with his but-| New assurance of the truth came upon him 
tons almost as prominently on view as Sloppy’s | in the next few following days, when it was put 
own, and with his wooden leg in a highly unac- | forth how the wounded man had been married 
commodating state. But not for many seconds | on his bed, and to whom, and how, though al- 
was his countenance visible in the room; for | ways in a dangerous condition, he was a shade 
Sloppy lightly trotted out with him and trotted | better. Bradley would far rather have been 
down the staircase, Mr. Venus attending to open | seized for his murder than he would have read 
the street door. Mr. Sloppy’s instructions had | that passage, knowing himself spared, and know- 
been to deposit his burden in the road; but a | ing why. 
scavenger’s cart happening to stand unattended | . But, not to be still further defrauded and over- 
at the corner, with its little ladder planted against | reached—which he would be if implicated by 
the wheel, Mr. S. found it impossible to resist | Riderhood, and punished by the law for his ab- 
‘the temptation of shooting Mr. Silas Wegg into | ject failure, as though it had been a success— 
the cart’s contents. A somewhat difficult feat, | he kept close in his school during the day, ven- 
-achieved with great dexterity, and with a pro- | tured out warily at night, and went no more to 


digious splash. the railway station. He examined the advertise- 
a a ments in the newspapers for any sign that Rider- 

hood acted on his hinted threat of so summon- 

CHAPTER XV. ing him to renew their acquaintance, but found 


none. Having paid him handsomely for the 
eee oe oH IN THE TRAYS Te support and accommodation he had had at the 
erent Lock House, and knowing him to be a very ig- 
How Bradley Headstone had been racked and | norant man who could not write, he began to 
riven in his mind since the quiet evening when | doubt whether he was to be feared at all, or 
by the river-side he had risen, as it were, out | whether they need ever meet again. 
of the ashes of the Bargeman, none but he could | All this time his mind was never off the rack, 
have told. Not even he could have told, for|and his raging sense of having been made to 
such misery can only be felt. fling himself across the chasm which divided 
’ First, he had to bear the combined weight of | those two, and bridge it over for their coming 
the knowledge of what he had done, of that | together, never cooled down. This horrible con- 
haunting reproach that he might have done it so | dition brought on other fits. He could not have 
much better, and of the dread of discovery. This |said how many, or when; but he saw in the 
was load enough to crush him, and he labored | faces of his pupils that they had seen him in 
under it day and night. It was as heavy on him | that state, and that they were possessed by a 
in his scanty sleep as in his red-eyed waking | dread of his relapsing. 
hours. It bore him down with adread unchang-| One winter day, when a slight fall of snow was 
ing monotony, in which there was not a mo-| feathering the sills and frames of the school- 
ment’s variety. The overweighted beast of bur- | room windows, he stood at his blackboard, cray- 


242 


on in hand, about to commence with a class; 
when, reading in the countenances of those boys 
that there was something wrong, and that they 
seemed in alarm for him, he turned his eyes to 
the door foward which they faeed. He then 
saw a slouching man of forbidding appearance 
standing in the midst of the school, with a bun- 
die under his arm; and saw that it was Rider- 
hood. 

He sat down on a stool which one of his boys 
put for him, and he had a passing knowledge 
that he was in danger of falling, and that his 
face was becoming distorted. But the fit went 
off for that time, and he wiped his mouth, and 
stood up again. 

‘Bee your pardon, governor! By your leave!” 
said Riderhood, knuckling his forehead, with a 
chuckle and a leer. ‘* What place may this 
be ?” , 

‘This is a school.” 

‘¢ Where young folks learns wot’s right?” said 
Riderhood, gravely nodding. ‘‘ Beg your par- 
don, governor! By your leave! But who teach- 
es this school ?” 

vag as 

‘‘You’re the master, are you, learned gov- 
ernor ?” 

‘Yes. Jam the master.” 

*¢ And a lovely thing it must be,” said Rider- 
hood, ‘‘fur to learn young folks wot’s right, and 
fur to know wot they know wot you do it. Beg 
your pardon, learned governor! By your leave! 
That there blackboard; wot’s it for ?” 

‘Tt is for drawing on, or writing on.’ 

*“Ts it though!” “said Riderhood. Who'd 
have thought it, from the looks on it! Would 
you be so kind as write your name upon it, 
learned governor?” (In a wheedling tone.) 

Bradley hesitated for a moment; but placed 
his usual signature, enlarged, upon the board. 

‘*T ain’t a learned character myself,” said 
Riderhood, surveying the class, ‘‘but I do ad- 
mire learning in others. I should dear ly like to 
hear these here young folks read that there name 
off from the writing.” 

The arms of the class went up. At the mis- 
erable master’s nod the shrill chorus arose: 
‘* Bradley Headstone !” 

‘¢No?” cried Riderhood. ‘* You don’t mean 
it? Headstone! Why, that’s in a church- 
yard. Hooroar for another turn !”’ 

Another tossing of arms, another nod, and 
another shrill chorus: ‘‘ Bradley Headstone!” 

‘“‘T’ve got it now!” said Riderhood, after at- 
tentively listening, and internally repeating: 
‘“‘Bradley. I see. Chris’en name, Bradley, 
sim’lar to Roger, which is my own. Eh? 
Fam’ly name, Headstone, sim’lar to Riderhood, 
which is my own. Eh?” 

- Shrill chorus. ‘‘ Yes!” 

‘*¢ Might you be acquainted, learned governor,” 
said Riderhood, ‘‘ with a person of abont your 
own heighth and breadth, and wot’ud pull down 
in a scale about your own weight, answering to 
a name sounding summat like Totherest ?” 

With a desperation in him that made him 
perfectly quiet, though his jaw was heavily 
squared; with his eyes upon Riderhood; and 
with traces of quickened breathing in his nos- 
trils, the schoolmaster replied, in a suppressed 
voice, after a pause: ‘I think I know the man 
you mean,’ 


i hal we 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘T thought you knowed the man I mean), 
learned governor. I want the man.” ' 


With a half glance around him at his pupile’ me 


Bradley returned : ‘‘ Do yousuppose he is here ?” 

‘‘ Begging your pardon, learned governor, and 
by your leave,” said Riderhood, with a laugh, 
‘“how could I suppose he’s here, when there’s 
nobody here but you, and me, and these young 
lambs wot youre a learning on? But he i is 
most excellent company, that man, and I want 
him to come ‘and see me at my Lock, up the 
river.’ 

‘‘T’l] tell him so.” 

‘¢D’ye think he’ll come?” asked Riderhood. 

‘*T am sure he will.” 

“Having got your word for him,” said Riders 
hood, ‘*I shall count upon him. 'p’ raps you’d 
so fin obleege me, learned governor, as tell him 
that if he don’t come precious soon I'll Jook him 
u be sy 
‘* He shall know it.” 

‘“‘Thankee. As I says a while ago,” pursued 
Riderhood, changing his hoarse tone and leering 
round upon the class again, ‘‘ though not a learn- 


ed character my own self, T do admire learning » 


in others, to be sure! Being here and having 
met with your kind attention, Master, might I, 
afore I go, ask a question of these here young 
lambs of yourn ?” 

‘¢Tf it is in the way of school,” said Bradley, 
always sustaining his dark look at the other, and 
speaking in his suppressed voice, ‘‘ you may.” 

ce Oh ! 
erhood. ‘‘Ill pound it, Master, to be in the 
way of school. Wot’s the diwisions of water, 
my lambs? Wot sorts of water is there on the 
land ?” 

Shrill chorus: ‘‘ Seas, rivers, lakes, and ponds.” 

‘¢ Seas, rivers, lakes, and ponds,” said Rider- 
hood, ‘‘They’ve got all the lot, Master! Blowed 
if I shouldn’t have left out lakes, never having 
clapped eyes upon one, to my knowledge. Seas, 
rivers, lakes, and ponds. 
they catches in seas, rivers, lakes, and ponds?” 

Shrill chorus (with some contempt for the ease 
ofthe question): ‘‘ Fish !” 

‘Good agin!” said Riderhood. ‘But wot 
else is it, my lambs, as they sometimes ketches 
in rivers 2” 

Chorus at aloss. One shrill voice: ‘* Weed ” 

‘* Good agin!” cried Riderhood. ‘ But it ain’t 
weed neither. You'll never guess, my dears. 


Wot is it, besides fish, as they sometimes ketch- — 


es in rivers? Well! Ill tell you. 
clothes.” 

Bradley’s face changed. 

‘¢ Leastways, lambs,” said Riderhood, observ- 
ing him out of the corners of his eyes, ‘‘ that’s 
wot I my own self sometimes ketches in rivers. 
For strike me blind, my lambs, if I didn’t keteh 
in a river the wery bundle under my arm!” 

The class looked at the master, as if appeal- 
ing from the irregular entrapment of this mode 
of examination. The master looked at the 
examiner, as if he would have torn him to 
pieces. 

‘‘T ask your pardon, learned ? Na ” said 
Riderhood, smearing his sleeve across his mouth 
as he laughed with a relish, ‘‘’tain’t fair to the 
lambs, I know. It wos a bit of fun of mine. 
But upon my soul I drawed this here bundle out 
of a river! It’s a Bargeman’s suit of clothes. 


It’s suits*0’ 


It’s in the way of school!” cried Rid- 


Wot is it, lambs, as — 


You see, it had been sunk there by the man as 


- wore it, and I got it up.” 


_ **How do you know it was sunk by the man 
who wore it ?” asked Bradley. 

“«’*Cause I see him do it,” said Riderhood. 

They looked at each other. Bradley, slowly 
withdrawing his eyes, turned his face to the 
blackboard and slowly wiped his name out. 

_ **A heap of thanks, Master,” said Riderhood, 
“for bestowing so much of your time, and of the 
lambses’ time, upon a man as hasn’t got no oth- 
er recommendation to you than being a honest 
man. Wishing to see.at my Lock up the river 
the person as we’ve spoke of, and as you've an- 


~ swered for, I takes my*leave of the lambs and 


of their learned governor both.” 

With those words he slouched out of the 
school, leaving the master to get through his 
weary work as he might, and leaving the whis- 
pering pupils to observe the master’s face until he 
fell into the fit which had been long impending. 

The next day but one was Saturday, and a 
holiday. Bradley rose early, and set out on 
foot for Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. He rose 
so early that it was not yet light when he began 
his journey. Before extinguishing the candle 
by which he had dressed himself he made a lit- 
tle parcel of his decent silver watch and its de- 
cent guard, and wrote inside the paper: ‘‘ Kind- 
ly take care of these for me.” He then addressed 


_ the parcel to Miss Peecher, and left it on the most 


protected corner of the little seat in her little 


- porch. | 
It was a cold hard easterly morning when he: 


latched the garden gate and turned away. The 
light snowfall which had feathered his school- 


- room windows on the Thursday still lingered in 


blew black. 


the air, and was falling white, while the wind 
The tardy day did' not appear un- 
til he had been on foot two hours, and had trav- 
ersed a great part of London from east to west. 
Such breakfast as he had he took at the com- 
fortless public house where he had parted from 
Riderhood on the occasion of their night-walk. 
He took it, standing at the littered bar, and 
looked loweringly at. a man who stood where 


_ Riderhood had stood that early morning. 


when the night closed in. 


He outwalked the short day, and was on the 
towing-path by the river, somewhat foot-sore, 
Still two or three 
miles short of the Lock, he slackened his pace 
then, but went steadily on. The ground was 
now covered with snow, though thinly, and there 
were floating lumps of ice in the more exposed 
parts of the river, and broken sheets of ice un- 
der the shelter of the banks. He took heed of 
nothing but the ice, the snow, and the distance, 


until he saw a light ahead, which he knew 


_ had absolute possession of the dreary scene. 
the distance before him, lay the place where he 
_had struck the worse than useless blows that 


gleamed from the Lock House window. It ar- 
rested his steps, and he looked all around. The 
ice, and the snow, and he, and the one light, 
In 


mocked him with Lizgie’s presence there as Eu- 
gene’s wife. In the distance behind him, lay 
the place where the children with pointing arms 
had seemed to devote him to the demons in cry- 
ing out hisname. Within there, where the light 
was, was the man who as to both distances could 
give him up to ruin. ‘To these limits had his 
world shrunk. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


b 343, 


He mended his pace, keeping his eyes upon 
the light with a strange intensity, as if he were 
taking aim at it. When he approached it so 
nearly as that it parted into rays, they seemed 
to fasten themselves to him and draw him on. 
When he struck the door with his hand, his foot 
followed so quickly on his hand that he was in 
the room before he was bidden to enter, 

The light was the joint product of a fire anda 
candle. Between the two, with his feet on the 
iron fender, sat Riderhood, pipe in mouth. 

He looked up with a surly nod when his visit- 
orcamein. His visitor looked down with a surly 
nod. His outer clothing removed, the visitor then 
took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. 

‘*Not a smoker, I think?” said Ridcrhood, 
pushing a bottle to him across the table. 

RENO 9: 

They both lapsed into silence with their eyes 
upon the fire. 

‘¢You don’t need to be told I am here,” said 
Bradley at length. ‘* Who is to begin ?” 

‘¢Tll begin,” said Riderhood, ‘‘when I’ve 
smoked this here pipe out.” 

He finished it with great deliberation, knocked 
out the ashes on the hob, and put it by. 

‘‘Vll begin,” he then repeated, ‘‘ Bradley 
Headstone, Master, if you wish it.” 

‘‘Wish it? I wish to know what you want 
with me.” 

‘¢ And so you shall.” Riderhood had looked 
hard at his hands and’ his pockets, apparently 
as a precautionary measure lest he should have 
any weapon about him. But he now leaned for- 
ward, turning the collar of his waistcoat with an 
inquisitive finger, and asked, ‘‘ Why, where’s 
your watch ?” 

**T have left it behind.” 

‘“‘T wantit. But it can be fetched. I’ve took 
a fancy to it.” 

‘Bradley answered with a contemptuous laugh. 

‘*T want it,” repeated Riderhood, in a louder 
voice, ‘and I mean to have it.” 

‘That is what you want of me, is it ?” 

**No,’”’ said Riderhood, still louder; ‘‘it’s 
on’y part of what I want of you. Iwant money 
of you.” - 

‘Any thing else?” 

‘¢ Every think else!’? roared Riderhood, in a 
very loud and furious way.  ‘‘ Answer me like 
that and I won’t talk to you at all.” 

Bradley looked at him. 

‘¢ Don’t so much as look at me like that or I 
won’t talk to you at all,” vociferated Riderhood. 
‘‘But, instead of talking, Pll bring my hand 
down upon you with all its weight,” heavily 
smiting the table with great force, ‘‘and smash 
rou!” 
ve Go on,’ said Bradley, after moistening his 
lips. 

eo! I’m agoing on. Don’t you fear but Pl 
go on full-fast enough for you, and fur enough 
for you, without your telling. Look here, Brad- 
ley Headstone, Master. You might have split 
the T’other governor to chips and wedges, with- 
out my caring, except that I might have come 
upon you for a glass or so now and then. Else » 
why have to do with you at all? But when you 
copied my clothes, and when you copied my 
neckhankercher, and when you shook blood 
upon me after you had done the trick, you did 
wot I’ll be paid for and paid heavy for. If it 


a: 


344 


come to be throw’d upon you, you was to be 
ready to throw it upon me, was you? Where 
else but in Plashwater Weir Mill Lock was 
there a man dressed according as described ? 
Where else but in Plashwater Weir Mill Lock 
was there a man as had had words with him 
coming through in his boat ? Look at the Lock- 
keeper in Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, in them 
same answering clothes and with that’same an- 
swering red neckhankercher, and see whether his 
clothes happens to be bloody or not. Yes, they 
do happen to be bloody. Ah, you sly devil!” 

_ Bradley, very white, sat looking at him in 
silence. 

‘‘But two could play at your game,” said 
Riderhood, snapping his fingers at him half a 
dozen times, ‘‘and [ played it long ago; long 
afore you tried your clumsy hand at it; in days 
when you hadn’t begun croaking your lecters or 
what not in your school. I know to a figure 
how you done it. Where you stole away I 
could steal away arter you, and do it knowinger 
than you. I know how you come away from 
London in your own clothes, and where you 
changed your clothes and hid your clothes. 
see you with my own eyes take your own clothes 
from their hiding-place among them felled trees 
and take a dip in the river to account for your 
dressing yourself, to any one as might come by. 
I see you rise up Bradley Headstone, Master, 
where you sat down Bargeman. I see you 
pitch your Bargeman’s bffndle into the river. I 
hooked your Bargeman’s bundle out of the river. 


’ 


L 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. — 


I’ve got your Bargeman’s clothes, tore this way | 


and that way with the scuffle, stained green with 
the grass, and spattered all over with what bust 
from the blows. I’ve got them, and I’ve got 
you. I don’t care a curse for the ‘T’other gov- 
ernor, alive or dead, but I care a many curses 
for my own self. And as you laid your plots 
agin me and was a sly devil agin me, I'll be 
paid for it—I'll be paid for it—DIl be paid for it 
—till I’ve drained you dry!” 

Bradley looked at the fire with a working face 
and was silent for awhile. At last he said, with 
what seemed an inconsistent composure of voice 
and feature : 

‘You can’t get blood out of a stone, Rider- 
hood.” 

“J can get money out of a schoolmaster 
though.” 

“You can’t get out of me what is not in me. 
You can’t wrest from me what I have not got. 
Mine is but a poor calling. You have had more 
than two guineas from me already. Do you know 
how long it has taken me (allowing for a long 
and arduous training) to earn such a sum ?” 

‘¢T don’t know, nor I don’t care. Yours is a 
’spectable calling. ‘Tosave your ’spectability it’s 
worth your while to pawn every article of clothes 
you've got, sell every stick in your house, and 

beg and borrow every penny you can get trusted 
- with. When you’ve done that and handed over 
T'll leave you. Not afore.” 

‘“¢ How do you mean, you'll leave me ?”’ 

‘‘T mean as I’ll keep you company, wherever 
you go, when you go away from here. Let the 
Lock take care of itself. ll take care of you, 
once I’ve got you.” 

Bradley again looked at the fire.. Eying him 
aside, Riderhood took up his pipe, refilled it, 
lighted it, and sat smoking. Bradley leaned 
his elbows on his knees, and his head upon his 


Any 


hands, and looked at the fire with a most intent 


-abstraction. F 


‘‘Riderhood,” he said, raising himself in his — 


chair, after a long silence, and drawing out his 
purse and putting it on the table. ) 
with this, which is all the money I have; say I~ 
let you have my watch; say that every quarter, 
when I draw my salary, I pay you a certain por- 
tion of it.” . eit 
‘‘Say nothing of the sort,” retorted Riders 
hood, shaking his head ashe smoked. ‘“ You've 
got away once, and I won’t run the chance agin. 
I've had trouble enough to find you, and shouldn’t 
have found you, if I hadn’t seen you slipping 
along the street overnight, and watched you till 
you was safe housed. I'll have one settlement 
with you for good and all.” 
‘¢ Riderhood, I am a man who has lived a se- 
cluded life. I have no resources beyond myself. 
I have absolutely no friends.” i; 
‘‘That’s a lie,” said Riderhood.  ‘‘ You’ve 
got one friend as I knows of; one as is good for 
a Savings Bank book, or I’m a blue monkey!” 
Bradley’s face darkened, and his hand slowly 
closed on the purse and drew it back, as he sat 
listening for what the other should go on to say. 
‘‘T went into the wrong shop, fust, last'Thurs- 
day,” said Riderhood. ‘‘ Found myself among 
the young ladies, by George! Over the young. 
ladies, I see a Missis. That Missis is sweet 
enough upon you, Master, to sell herself up, slap, 
to get you out of trouble. Make her doit then.” 
Bradley stared at him so very suddenly that 
Riderhood not quite knowing how to take it, af- 


| fected to be occupied with the encircling smoke 


from his pipe; fanning it away with his hand, 
and blowing it off. 

‘“You spoke to the mistress, did you?” in- 
quired Bradley, with that former composure of 
voice and featuré that seemed inconsistent, and — 
with averted eyes. 

‘¢ Poof! Yes,” said Riderhood, 
attention from the smoke. I spoke to her. 


I 


frawing his _ 


‘* Say I part’ s 


~ 
‘“-* 


fe j 


ae 
® 


me 


Ag 
a 


ee 


7 
J 


¥ 
ss 


a 
P 


_ 


. 


‘ 


didn’t say much to her. She was put in a fluster ~ 


by my dropping in among the young ladies (I 
never did set up for a lady’s man), and she took — 
me into her parlor to hope as there was nothing 
wrong. I tells her, ‘O no, nothing wrong. 
The master’s my wery good friend. But I see 


is 


ay 


5 
¥ 


t 


how the land laid, and that she was comfortable _ 


off.” 
Bradley put the purse in his pocket, grasped — 


a 
v 


his left wrist with his right hand, and sat rigid- ~ 


ly contemplating the fire. . 
‘¢She couldn’t live more handy to you than ~ 


she does,” said Riderhood, ‘¢and when I goes ~ 


home with you (as of course I am agoing), I 


recommend you to clean her out without loss of ~ 


time. You can marry her arter you and me 
have come to a settlement. She’s nice-looking, — 
and I know you can’t be keeping company with 


no one else, havirig been so lately disapinted in ~ 


another quarter.” } Con 
Not one other word did Bradley utter all that” 


night. Not once did he change his attitude, or — 
Rigid before — 


loosen his hold upon his wrist. 


the fire, as if it were a charmed flame that was — 


turning him old, he sat, with the dark lines 
deepening in his face, its stare becoming more — 


and more haggard, its surface turning whiter _ 
, 


P 


and whiter as if it were being overspread with 
ashes, and the very texture and color of his hair. 
degenerating. 


e 


; 


Ji0 NONVHS FM OL TION 


a AOE 


ain 


Trees 
eee 


———_——s 


— Sa 
an 


aS 


ae 


= eee 


Sa 


f 


if 

# 
ia) 

on ty 


f] 


SS 


345 


346 

Not until the late daylight made the window 
transparent did this decaying statue move. Then 
it slowly arose, and sat in the window, looking 
out. 

Riderhood had kept his chair all night. In 
the earlier part of the night he had muttered 
twice or thrice that it was bitter cold; or that 
the fire burned fast, when he got upto mend it; 
but as he could elicit from his companion nei- 
ther sound nor movement, he had afterward held 
his peace. He was making some disorderly 
preparations for coffee, when Bradley came 


from the window and put on his outer coat and 


hat. 

‘* Hadn’t us better have a bit o’ breakfast afore 
we start?” said Riderhood. ‘It ain’t good to 
freeze a empty stomach, Master.” 

Without a sign to show that he heard, Brad- 
ley walked out of the Lock House. Catching 
up from the table a piece of bread, and taking 
his Bargeman’s bundle under his arm, Rider- 
hood immediately followed him. Bradley turned 
toward London. Riderhood caught him up, and 
walked at his side. 

The two men trudged on, side by side, in si- 
lence, full three miles. Suddenly, Bradley turn- 
ed to retrace his course. Instantly, Riderhood 
turned likewise, and they went back side by 
side. 

Bradley re-entered the Lock House. So did 
Riderhood. Bradley sat down in the window. 
Riderhood warmed himself at the fire. After an 
hour or more, Bradley abruptly got up again, 
and again went out, but this time turned the 
other*way. Riderhood was close after him, 
caught him up in a few paces, and walked at 
his side. 

This time, as before, when he found his at- 
tendant not to be shaken off, Bradley suddenly 
turned back. This time, as before, Riderhood 
turned back along with him. But not this time, 
as before, did they go into the Lock House, for 
Bradley came to a stand on the snow-covered 
turf by the Lock, looking up the river and down 
the river. Navigation was impeded by the frost, 
and the scene was a mere white and yellow des- 
ert. 

<¢ Come, come, Master,” urged Riderhood, at 
his side. ‘‘* This is a dry game. And where's 
the good of it? You can’t get rid of me, ex- 
cept by coming to a settlement. I am agoing 
along with you wherever you go.” 

Without a word of reply, Bradley passed quick- 
ly from him over the wooden bridge on the lock 
gates. ‘* Why, there’s even less sense in this 
move than t’other,’’ said Riderhood, following. 
‘The Weir’s there, and you'll have to come 
back, you know.” 

Without taking the least notice, Bradley leaned 
his body against a post, in a resting attitude, and 
there rested with his eyes cast down. — ** Being 
brought here,” said Riderhood, gruffly, ‘ PI turn 
it to some use by changing my gates.” With a 
rattle and a rush of water he then swung-to the 
lock gates that were standing open, before open- 
ing the others. So, both sets of gates were, for 
the moment, closed. ~ 

“You'd better by far be reasonable, Bradlev 
Headstone, Master,” said Riderhood, ‘‘or I'll 
drain you all the dryer for it, when we do set- 
tle. —Ah!. Would you!” é 

Bradley had canght him round the body. 
seemed to be girdled with an iron ring. 


He 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


were on the brink of the Lock, about midway 


between the two sets of gates. 


“Tet go!” said Riderhood, ‘for Pll get my ‘ 


knife out and slash you wherever I can cut you. — 


Let go!” ; 


Bradley was drawing to the Lock-edge. 
erhood was drawing away from it. It was a 


strong grapple, and a fierce struggle, arm and . 


leg. Bradley got him round, with his back to 
the Lock, and’still worked him backward. i 

“‘Let go!’ said Riderhood. ‘‘Stop! 
are you trying at? You can’t drown Me. Ain't 
I told you that the man as has come through 
drowning can never be drowned? I.can’t be 
drowned.” . 

“TI can be!” returned Bradley, in a despe- 
rate, clenched voice. ‘‘I am resolved to be. 
I'll hold you living, and I’ll hold you dead. Come 
down!” 

Riderhood went over into the smooth pit, back- 
ward, and Bradley Headstone upon him. When 
the two were found, lying under the ooze and 
scum behind one of the rotting gates, Riderhood’s 
hold had relaxed, .probably in falling, and his 
eyes were staring upward. But he was girdled 
still with Bradley’s iron ring, and the rivets of 
the iron ring held tight. 


eS 


CHAPTER XVI. 
PERSONS AND THINGS IN GENERAL, 


Mr. and Mrs. John Harmon’s first delightfal 
occupation was, to set all matters right that had 
strayed in any way wrong, or that might, could, 
would, or should, have strayed in any way wrong, 
while their name was in abeyance. In tracing 
out affairs for which John’s fictitious death was 
to be considered in any way responsible, they 
used a very broad and free construction ; regard- 
ing, for instance, the dolls’ dress-maker as hav- 
ing a claim on their protection, because of her 
association with Mrs. Eugene Wrayburn, and be- 
cause of Mrs. Eugene’s old association, in her 
turn, with the dark side of the story. It followed 
that the old man, Riah, as a good and servicea- 
ble friend to both, was not to be disclaimed. Nor 
even Mr. Inspector, as having been trepanned 
into an industrious hunt on a false scent. It may 
be remarked, in connection with that worthy of- 
ficer, that a rumor shortly afterward pervaded 
the Force, to the effect that he had. confided to 
Miss Abbey Potterson, over a jug of mellow flip 
in the bar of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters, 
that he ‘didn’t stand to lose a farthing” through 
Mr. Harmon’s coming to life, but was quite as 


well satisfied as if that gentleman had been bar-_ 
barously murdered, and he (Mr. Inspector) had ~ 


pocketed the government reward. 


In all their arrangements of such nature, Mr. + 


and Mrs. John Harmon derived much assistance 
from their eminent solicitor, Mr. Mortimer Light- 
wood; who laid about him professionally with 
such unwonted dispatch and intention, that a 
piece of work was vigorously pursucd as soon as 
cut out; whereby Young Blight was acted on as 
by that transatlantic dram which is poetically 


‘named An Eye-Opener, and found himself star- 


ing at real clients instead of out of window. The 
accessibility of Riah proving very useful as to # 


few hints toward the disentanglement of Eugene’s 
They | affairs, Lightwood applied himself with infinit® — 


Ride 4 


What 


} 


_ zest to attacking and harassing Mr. Fledgeby: 
who, discovering himself in danger of being 
blown into the air by certain explosive transac- 
tions in which he had been engaged, and having 
been already flayed under his beating, came to 
a parley and asked for quarter. ‘The harmless 
Twemlow profited by the conditions entered into, 
though he littlethought it. Mr. Riah unaccount- 
‘ably melted; waited in person on him over the 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


847 


| ‘*Go it!” cried Mr, Sampson, becoming, on 
the shortest notice, a prey to despair. ‘Oh yes! 
Go-it, Miss Lavinia Wilfer !” 

‘What you may mean, George Sampson, by 
your omnibus-driving expressions, I can not pre- 
tend to imagine. Neither,” said Miss Lavinia, 
‘““Mr. George Sampson, do I wish to imagine. 
It is enough for me to know in my own heart 
that Iam not going to—” having imprudently 


stable-yard in Duke Street, St. James’s, no lom=-got into a sentence without préviding a way out 


ger ravening but mild, to inform him that pay- 
ment of interest as heretofore, but henceforth at 
‘Mr. Lightwood’s offices, would appease his Jew- 
ish rancor; and departed with the secret that 
Mr. John Harmon had advanced the money and 
‘become the creditor. Thus was the sublime 
Snigsworth’s wrath averted, and thus did he 
snort no larger amount of moral grandeur at 
the Corinthian column in the print over the fire- 
place, than was normally in his (and the British) 
constitution. 


Mrs. Wilfer’s first visit :to the Mendicant’s 
bride at the new abode of Mendicancy, was a 
grand event. Pa had been sent for into the City, 
on the very day of taking possession, and had 
been stunned with astonishment, and brought-to, 
and led about the house by one ear, to behold 
its various treasures, and. had been enraptured 
and enchanted. Pa had also been appointed 
Secretary, and had been enjoined to give instant 
notice of res’gnation to Chicksey, Veneering, 
and Stobbles, for ever and ever. But Ma came 
later, and came, as was her due, in state. 

The carriage was sent for Ma, who entered it 
with a bearing worthy of the occasion, accom- 
panied, rather than supported, by Miss Lavinia, 
who altogether declined to recognize the mater- 
nal majesty. Mr. George Sampson meekly fol- 
lowed. He was received in the vehicle, by Mrs. 
Wilier, as if admitted to the honor of assisting at 
_ a funeral in the family, and she then issued the 
order, ** Onward!” to the Mendicant’s menial. 

‘¢T wish to goodness, Ma,” said Lavvy, throw- 
ing herself back among the cushions, with her 
arms crossed, ‘‘that you'd loll a little.” 

‘¢How!” fepeated Mrs. Wilfer. ‘‘ Loll!” 

‘6 Yes, Ma.” 

‘*T hope,” said the impressive lady, ‘‘I am 
incapable of it.” 

‘¢T am sure you look so, Ma. 


should go out to dine with one’s own* daughter | daughter. 


of it, Miss Lavinia was constrained to close with 
‘*going to go it.” A weak conclusion, which, 
however, derived some appearance of strength 
from disdain. 

““Oh yes!” cried Mr. Sampson, with bitter- 
ness. ‘Thus it everis. I never—” 

‘*If you mean to say,” Miss Lavvy cut him 
short, ‘‘that you never brought up a young ga- 
zelle, you may save yourself the trouble, because 


did. We know you better.” 
home-thrust. ) 

‘¢ Lavinia,” returned Mr. Sampson, in a dis- 
mal vein, ‘‘I did not mean to say so. What I 
did mean to say was, that I never expected to 
retain my favored place in this family after For- 
tune shed her beams upon it. Why do you take 
| me,” said Mr, Sampson, ‘‘ to the glittering halls 
with which I can never compete, and then taunt 
me with my moderate salary? Is it generous? 
Is it kind ?” 5 

The stately lady, Mrs. Wilfer, perceiving he 
opportunity of delivering a few remarks from the 
throne, here took up the altercation. 

‘‘Mr. Sampson,” she began, ‘‘I can not per- 
mit you to misrepresent the intentions of a child 
of mine.” 

‘¢ Let him alone, Ma,” Miss Lavvy interposed 
with haughtiness. ‘‘It is indifferent to me what 
he says or does.” | 

‘*Nay, Lavinia,” quoth Mrs, Wilfer, ‘‘ this 
touches the blood of the family. If Mr. George 
Sampson attributes, even to my youngest daugh- 
ter—” 

(‘*I don’t see why you should use the word 
‘even,’ Ma,” Miss Lavvy interposed, ‘‘ because 
I am quite as important. as any of the others.”) 

‘¢ Peace!” said Mrs. Wilfer, solemnly. ‘I 
repeat, If Mr. George Sampson attributes to my 
youngest daughter groveling motives, he attrib- 


(As if this were a 


But why one | utes them equally to the mother of my youngest 


That mother repudiates them, and 


or sister, as if one’s under-petticoat was a back- | demands of Mr. George Sampson, as a youth of 


board, I do noé understand.” 
‘¢Neither do I understand,” retorted Mrs. 


honor, what he wowld have? I may be mistaken 
—nothing is more likely—but Mr. George Samp- 


Wilfer, with deep scorn, ‘‘how a young lady | son,” proceeded Mrs. Wilfer, majestically wav- 
can mention the garment in the name of which | ing her gloves, ‘‘ appears to me to be seated in a 


you have indulged. 


I blush for you.” 


first-class equipage. Mr. George Sampson ap- 


“Thank you, Ma,” said Lavvy, yawning, | pears to me to be on his way, by his own admis- 
‘but I can do it for myself, I am obliged to | sion, to a residence that may be termed Palatial. 


- you, when there’s any occasion.” 


Mr. George Sampson appears to me to be invited 


Here Mr. Sampson, with the view of estab- | to participate in the—shall I say the—Elevation 
lishing harmony, which he never under any cir- | which has descended on the family with which 


cumstances succeeded in doing, said, with an 
agreeable smile: “ After all, you know, ma’am, 
we know it’s there.” And:immediately felt that 
he had committed himself. 

“©We know it’s there!” said Mrs. Wilfer, 
glaring. . 

‘** Really, George,” remonstrated Miss La- 
vinia, ‘‘ I must say that I don’t understand your 
allusions, and that I think you might be more 
delicate and less personal.” 


he is ambitious, shall I say to Mingle? Whence, 
then, this tone on Mr. Sampson’s part ?” 

‘Tt is only, ma’am,” Mr. Sampson explained, 
in exceedingly low spirits, ‘‘ because, in a pecu- 
niary sense, I am painfully conscious of my un- 
worthiness, Lavinia is now highly connected. 
Can I hope that she will still remain the same 
Lavinia as of old? And is it not pardonable if 
I feel sensitive when I see a disposition on her 
| part to take me up short?” 


nobody in this carriage’ supposes that you ever ° 


348 


‘““If you are not satisfied with your position, 
Sir,” observed Miss Lavinia, with much polite- 
ness, ‘‘we can set you down at any turning you 
may please to indicate to my sister's coachman.” 

‘‘Pearest Lavinia,” urged Mr. Sampson, pa- 
thetically, ‘‘I adore you.” 

‘‘Then if you can’t do it in a more agreeable 
manner,” returned the young lady, ‘‘ I wish you 
wouldn’t.” 

‘‘T also,” pursued Mr. Sampson, ‘‘respect 
you, ma’am, to an extent which must ever be 
below your merits, I am well aware, but still up 
to an uncommon mark. Bear with a wretch, 
Lavinia, bear with a wretch, ma’am, who feels 
the noble sacrifices you make for him, but is 
goaded almost to madness,” Mr. Sampson slapped 
his forehead, ‘‘ when he thinks of competing with 
the rich and influential.” 

‘When you have to compete with the rich 
and influential it will probably be mentioned to 
you,” said Miss Lavvy, “‘in good time. At 
least it will if the case is my case.” 

Mr. Sampson immediately expressed his fer- 
vent opinion that this was ‘‘ more than human,” 
and was brought upon his knees at ‘Miss La- 
vinia’s feet. 

It was the crowning addition indispensable to 
the full enjoyment of both mother and daughter, 
to bear Mr. Sampson, a grateful captive, into 
the glittering halls he had mentioned, and to 
parade him through the same, at once a living 
witness of their glory, and a bright instance of 
their condescension. Ascending the staircase, 
Miss Lavinia permitted him to walk at her side, 
with the air of saying: ‘‘ Notwithstanding all 
these surroundings, I am yours as yet, George. 
How long it may last is another question, but I 
am yours as yet.” She also benignantly inti- 
mated to him, aloud, the nature of the objects 
upon which he looked, and to which he was un- 
accustomed: as, ‘‘ Exotics, George,” ‘‘ An avi- 
ary, George,” ‘‘ An ormolu clock, George,” and 
the like. While, through the whole of the dec- 
orations, Mrs. Wilfer led the way with the bear- 
ing of a Savage Chief, who would feel himself 
compromised by manifesting the slightest token 
of surprise or admiration. 

Indeed, the bearing of this impressive woman 
throughout the day was a pattern to all impress- 
ive women under similar circumstances. She 
renewed the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Bof- 
fin, as if Mr. and Mrs. Boffin had said of her 
what she had said of them, and as if Time alone 
could quite wear her injury out. She regarded 
every servant who approached her as her sworn 
‘enemy, expressly intending to offer her affronts 
with the dishes, and to pour forth outrages. on 
her moral feelings from the decanters. She sat 
erect at table, on the right hand of her son-in- 
law, as half suspecting poison in the viands, and 
as bearing up with native force of character 
against other deadly ambushes. Her carriage 
toward Bella was as a carriage toward a young 
lady of good position whom she had met in so- 
ciety a few years ago. Even when, slightly 
thawing under the influence of sparkling Cham- 
pagne, she related to her son-in-law some pas- 
sages of domestic interest concerning her papa, 
she infused into the narrative such Arctic sug- 
gestions of her having been an unappreciated 
blessing to mankind, since her papa’s days, and 


also of that gentleman’s having been a frosty im- 


personation of a frosty race, as struck cold to 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. iy i 


the stomachs of the hearers. The Inexhaustible 
being produced, staring, and evidently intending ~ 
a weak and washy smile shortly, no sooner be- 
held her than it was stricken spasmodic and in- — 
When she took her leave at last, it — 
would have been hard to say whether it was with 
the air of going to the scaffold herself, or of 
leaving the inmates of the house for immediate 
execution. 
merrily, and told his wife, when he and she were 
alone, that her natural ways had never seemed P 
so dearly natural as beside this foil, and that 
although he did not dispute her being her father’s 


consolable. 


” 


Yet John Harmon enjoyed it all 


daughter, he should ever remain steadfast in the 


faith that she could not be her mother’s. © 


This visit was, as has been said, a grand event. 


Another event, not grand, but deemed in the 


house a special one, occurred at about the same 
period; and this was the first interview between 
Mr. Sloppy and Miss Wren. 

The dolls’ dress-maker, being at work for the 
Tnexhaustible upon.a full-dressed doll some two 
sizes larger than that young person, Mr, Sloppy 
undertook to call for it, and did so. 

‘‘Come in, Sir,” said Miss Wren, who was 
working at her bench. ‘‘ And who may you be?” 

Mr. Sloppy introduced himself by name and 


buttons. 
‘Oh, indeed!” cried Jenny. ‘‘Ah! I have 


been looking forward to knowing you. I heard 
of your distinguishing yourself.” . 
‘“‘Did you, Miss?” grinned Sloppy. ‘‘T am 


sure I am glad to hear it, but I don’t know how.” 

‘‘Pitching somebody into a mud-cart,” said 
Miss Wren. ; 

“Qh! That way!” cried Sloppy. 
Miss.” And threw back his head and laughed. 

‘Bless us!” exclaimed Miss Wren, with a 
start. ‘*Don’t open your mouth as wide as 
that, young man, or it'll catch so, and not shut 
again some day.” 

Mr. Sloppy opened it, if possible, wider, and 
kept it open until his laugh was out. 

‘“Why, you're like the giant,” said Miss 
Wren, ‘“‘when he came home in the land of 
Beanstalk, and wanted Jack for sypper.” 

“Was he good-looking, Miss ?” asked Sloppy. 

‘¢No,” said Miss Wren, ‘‘ Ugly.” 

Her visitor glanced round the room—which 
had many comforts in it now that had not been 
in it before—and said: ‘‘ This is a pretty place, 
Miss.” | 

‘Glad you think so, Sir,” returned Miss 
Wren. © ‘* And what do you think of Me?” 

The honesty of Mr. Sloppy being severely 


taxed by the question, he twisted a button, 


grinned, and faltered. 

‘¢Qut with it!” said Miss Wren, with an arch 
look. ‘‘Don’t you think me a queer little com- 
icality ?” 
asking the question, she shook her hair down. 

“Oh!” cried Sloppy, in a burst of admira- 
tion. ‘*Whata lot, and what a color!” 


Miss Wren, with her usual expressive hitch, © 


went on with her work. But left her hair as it 

was; not displeased by the effect it had made. 
‘You don’t live here alone, do you, Miss?” 

asked Sloppy. 

- No,” said Miss Wren, with a chop. 

here with my fairy godmother.” | 
“With—” Mr. Sloppy couldn’t make it out; 

‘¢with who did you say, Miss?” 


Veg.” 


In shaking her head at him, afier ~ 


*¢ Live ‘ i 


-_—L- 


Well!” replied Miss Wren, more seriously, 
“With my second father. Or with my first, for 
that matter.” And she shook her head and 
drew asigh. “If you had known a poor child 
I used to have here,” she added, ‘you'd have 
understood me. But you didn’t, and you can't. 
All the better!” 

‘“‘You must have been taught a long time,” 


said Sloppy, glancing at the array of dolls in| ‘* What a question !” cried Miss Wren. 


hand, ‘* before you came to work so neatly, Miss, 
and with such a pretty taste.” 

*“‘Never was taught a stitch, young man!” 
returned the dress-maker, tossing her head. 
“* Just gobbled and gobbled, till I found out how 
to doit. Badly enough at first, but better now.” 

“‘And here have I,” said Sloppy, in some- 
thing of a self-reproachful tone, ‘‘ been a learn- 
ing and a learning, and here has Mr. Boffin 
been a paying and a paying, ever so long!” 

‘‘T have heard what your trade is,” observed 
Miss Wren ; “it’s cabinet-making.” 

Mr. Sleppy nodded. ‘‘ Now that the Mounds 
is done with, it is. I'll tell you what, Miss. I 
should like to make you something.” 

**Much obliged. But what?” 

“I could make you,” said Sloppy, surveying 
the room, ‘‘I could make you a handy set of 
nests to lay the dolls in. Or I could make you 
a handy little set of drawers to keep your silks, 
and threads, and scraps in. Or I could turn 
you a rare handle for that crutch-stick, if it be- 
longs to him you call your father.” 

“It belongs to me,”’ returned the little creat- 
ure, with a quick flush of her face and neck. 
**T am lame.” 

Poor Sloppy flushed too, for there was an in- 
Stinctive delicacy behind his buttons, and his 
own hand had struck it. He said, perhaps, the 
best thing in the way of amends that could be 
said, ‘‘f am very glad it’s yours, because I’d 
rather ornament it for you than for any one 
else. Please may I look at it ?” 

Miss Wren was in the act of handing it to 
him over her bench when she paused. ‘But 

you had better see me use it,” she said, sharply. 
“This is the way. Hoppetty, Kicketty, Pep- 
peg-peg. Not pretty; is it?” 

“It seems to me that you hardly want it at 
all,” said Sloppy. 

The little dressmaker sat down again, and 
gave it into his hand, saying, with that better 
look upon her, and with a smile: ‘Thank 
you!” 

‘* And as concerning the nests and the draw- 
ers,” said Sloppy, after measuring the handle on 
his sleeve, and softly standing the stick aside 
against the wall, ‘‘ why, it would be a real pleas- 
ure to me. I’ve heerd tell that you can sing 
most beautiful; and I should be better paid 
with a song than with any money; for I always 
loved the likes of that, and often giv’ Mrs. Hig- 
den and Johnny a comic song myself, with 
‘Spoken’ in it. Though that’s not your sort, 
I'll wager.” 

‘*You are a very kind young man,” returned 
the dress-maker; ‘‘a really kind young man. 
I accept your offer.—I suppose He won’t mind,” 
‘she added as an after-thought, shrugging her 
_ shoulders; ‘‘and if he does he may !” 

___“* Meaning him that you call your father, 
Miss ?” asked Sloppy. 

‘* No, no,” replied Miss Wren. ‘‘ Him, Him, 

Him !” . 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


349 


“‘Him, him, him?” repeated Sloppy, staring 
about, as if for Him. 

‘‘Him who is coming to court and marry 
me,” returned Miss Wren. ‘Dear me, how 
slow you are!” 

‘Oh! Hin!” said Sloppy. And seemed to 
turn thoughtful and a little troubled; ‘*I never 
thought of him. When is he coming, Miss ?” 

“* How 
should Z know !” 
_ “Where is he coming from, Miss?” 

‘* Why, good gracious, how can J tell! He 
is coming from somewhere or other, I suppose, 
and he is coming some day or other, I suppose. 
£ don’t know any more about him at present.” 

This tickled Mr. Sloppy as an extraordinarily 
| good joke, and he threw back his head and 
laughed with measureless enjoyment. At the 
sight of him laughing in that absurd way the 
doll? dress-maker laughed very heartily indeed. 
So they both laughed till they were tired. 

‘* There, there, there!” said Miss Wren. 
‘*For goodness’ sake stop, Giant, or I shall be 
swallowed up alive before I know it. And to 
this minute you haven’t said what you’ve come 
for.” 

“I have come for little Miss Harmonses doll,” 
said Sloppy. 
~**T thought as much,” remarked Miss Wren, 
‘‘and here is little Miss Harmonses doll wait- 
ing for you. She’s folded up in silver paper, 
you see, as if she was wrapped from head to foot 
in new Bank-notes. Take care of her, and 
there’s my hand, and thank you again.” 

‘‘PIl take more care of her than if she was a 
gold image,” said Sloppy, ‘‘and there's. both my 
hands, Miss, and I'll soon come back again. ’ 


But the greatest’ event of all, in the new life 
of Mr-and Mrs. John Harmon, was a visit from 
Mr,.and Mrs, Eugene Wrayburn. Sadly wan 
and worn was the once gallant Eugene, and 
walked resting on his wife’s arm, and leaning 
heavily upon a stick. But he was daily grow- 
ing stronger and better, and it was declared by 
the medical attendants that he might not be 
much disfigured by-and-by. It was a grand 
event, indeed, when Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Wray- 
burn came to stay at Mr. and Mrs. John Har- 
mon’s house: where, by-the-way, Mr. and Mrs. 
Boffin (exquisitely happy, and daily cruising 
about to look at shops) were likewise staying 
indefinitely. 


To Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, in confidence, did 
Mrs. John Harmon impart what she had known 
of the state of his wife’s affections, in his reck- 
less time. And to Mrs. John Harmon, in con- 
fidence, did Mr. Eugene Wrayburn impart that, 
please God, she should see how his wife had 
changed him! 

‘‘T make no protestations,” said Eugene; 
‘¢who does, who means them!—I have made 
a resolution.” 

‘*But would you believe, Bella,”’ interposed 
his wife, coming to resume her nurse’s place at 
his side, for he never got on well without her: 
‘‘ that on our wedding-day he told me he almost 
thought the best thing he could do was to die ?” 

** As I didn’t do it, Lizzie,’ said Eugene, *‘ Vl 
do that better thing you suggested—for your 
sake.” t 

That same afternoon, Eugene lying on his 
couch in his own room up stairs, Lightwood 


850 


came to chat with him, while Bella took his | if I were ashamed of her! 


wife out for a ride. 
will make her go,” Eugene had said; so, Bella 
had playfully forced her. 

‘‘ Dear old fellow,” Eugene began with Light- 
wood, reaching up his hand, *‘you couldn’t have 
come at a better time, for my mind is full, and 
-Iwant to empty it. First, of my present, before 
I touch upon my future. M. R. F., who is a 
much younger cavalier than’I, and a professed 
admirer of beauty, was so affable as to remark 
the other day (he paid us a visit of two days up 
the river there, and much objected to the ac- 
commodation of the hotel), that Lizzie ought to 
have her portrait painted. Which, coming from 
M. R. F., may be considered equivalent to a 
melodramatic blessing.” 

‘“You are getting well,” said Mortimer, with 
a smile. 

‘“‘ Really,” said Eugene, ‘‘I mean it. When 
M. R. F. said that, and followed it up by roll- 
ing the claret (for which he called, and I paid) 
in his mouth, and saying, ‘My dear son, why 
do you drink this trash?’ it was tantamount— 
in him—to a paternal benediction on our union, 
accompanied with a gush of tears. The cool- 
ness of M. R. F. is not to be measured by ordi- 

nary standards.” 

*¢ True enough,” said Lightwood. 

“‘That’s all,” pursued Eugene, ‘that I shall 
ever hear from M. R. F. on the subject, and he 
will continue to saunter through the world with 
his hat on:one side. My marriage being thus 
solemnly recognized at the family altar, I have 
no further trouble on that score. 
really have done wonders for me, Mortimer, in 
easing my money-perplexities, and with such 4 
guardian and steward beside me, as the preserv- 
er of my life (I am hardly strong yet, you see, 
for I am not man enough to refer to her without 
a trembling voice—she is so inexpressibly dear 
to me, Mortimer!), the little that I can call my 
own will be more than it ever has been. It need 
be more, for you know what it always has been 
in my hands. Nothing.” 

‘Worse than nothing, I fancy, Eugene. My 
own small income (I devoutly wish that my 
grandfather had left it to the Ocean rather than 
to me!) has been an effective Something, in the 
way of preventing me from turning to at Any 
thing. And I think yours has been much the 
same.’ 

miners ehake the voice .of wisdom,” said 
Eugene. ‘ We are shepherds both. In turn- 
ing to at last, we turn to in earnest. Let us say 
no more of that, fora few years to come. Now, 
I have had an idea, Mortimer, of taking myself 

and my wife to one ‘of the colonies, and working 
out my vocation there.” 

“TI should be lost without you, Eugene; but 
you may be right.” 

“No,” said Eugene, emphatically. 
Tight Wr ong.’ 

e said it with such a lively—almost angry 
—flash, that Mortimer showed himself greatly 
surprised. 

“Yon think this thumped head of mine is 
excited?” Eugene went on, with a high look ; 
“not so, believe me. I can say to you of the 
healthful music of my pulse what Hamlet said 
of his: My blood is up, but wholesomely up, 
when I think of it. Tell me! 
coward to Lizzie, and sneak away with her, as 


“ Not 


Next, you | 


Shall I turn. 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 


‘‘Nothing short of force! friend’s part in this world be, Mortimer, if she 


I 


Where would your - 


had turned coward to him, and on immeasurably — 
better occasion ?” 

‘Honorable and stanch,” said Lightwood. 
** And yet, Hugene—” 

‘‘And yet what, Mortimer?” 

“And yet, are you sure that you might. not 
feel (for her sake, I say for her sake) any slight 
coldness toward her on the part of—Society ?” 

“Oh! You and I may well stumble at the - 
word,” returned Eugene, laughing. ‘‘Do we 
mean our T'ippins ?” a 

‘¢Perhaps we do,” said Mortimer, laughing 
also. 

‘¢ Faith, we po!” returned Eugene, with great 
animation. ‘‘We may hide behind the bush ; 
and beat about it, but we po! Now, my wife is f 
something nearer to my heart, Mortimer, than 
Tippins is,“and I owe her a little more than I 
owe to Tippins, and I am rather prouder of her 
than I ever was of Tippins. Therefage,;I will 
fight.it out to the last gasp, with her and for her, 
here, in the open field. When I hide her, or 
strike for her, faint-heartedly, in a hole or a 
corner, do you, whom I love next best upon 
earth, tell me what I shall most righteously de- 
serve to be told:—that she would have done 
well to turn me over with her foot that night 
when I lay bleeding to death, and spat in my 
dastard face.” _ 

The glow that shone upon him as he spoke 
the words so irradiated his features that he look- 
ed, for the time, as though he had never been 
mutilated. His friend responded as Eugene 
would have had him respond, and they dis- 
coursed of the future until Lizzie came back. 
After resuming her place at his side, and ten- 
derly touching his hands and his head, she said: 

‘*Kugene, dear, you made me go out, but I 
ought to have staid with you. You are more — 
flushed than you have been for many days. 
What have you been doing ?” . 

“Nothing,” replied Eugene, ‘‘but looking for- 
ward to your coming back.” 

“And talking to “Mr. Lightwood,” said Liz- | 
zie, turning to him with a smile. ‘“‘Butit can ~ 
not have been Society that disturbed you.” 

“Faith, my dear love!” retorted Eugene, in 
his old airy manner, as he laughed and kissed 
her, ‘¢I rather think.it was Society, though !” 

The word ran so much in Mortimer Light- 
wood’s thoughts as he went home to the Temple j 
that night, that he resolved to take a look at 
Society, which he had not seen for a consider- 
able period. 


en ae ee ee ee 


a ee 


Se ee a 


Siete ines 


CHAPTER THE LAST. 
THE VOICE OF SOCIETY. 
Brnooves Mortimer Lightwood, therefore, to 


‘answer a dinner card from Mr. and Mrs. Veneer- 


ing requesting the honor, and to signify that Mr. 
Mortimer Lightwood will be happy to have the 
other honor. The Veneerings have been, as ~ 
usual, indefatigably dealing dinner cards to So- 
ciety, and whoever desires to take a hand had 
best be quick about it, for it is written in-the 
Books of the Insolvent Fates that Veneering 
shall make a resounding smash next week. 
Yes. Having found out the clew to that great 
mystery how people can contrive to live beyond 


ies as legislator deputed to the Universe by the 
- pure electors of Pocket Breeches, it shall come 


their means, and having over-jobbed his jobber- 


to pass next week that Veneering will accept 
the Chiltern Hundreds, that the legal gentle- 
man in Britannia’s, confidence will again accept 
the Pocket Breeches Thousands, and that the 
Veneerings will retire to Calais, there to live on 
Mrs. Veneering’s diamonds (in which Mr. Ve- 
neering, 
time invested considerable sums), and to relate 
to Neptune and others, how that, before Ve~ 
neering retired from Parliament, the House of 
Commons was cemposed of himself and the 
six hundred and fifty-seven dearest and oldest 
friends he had in the werld. It shall likewise 
come to pass, at as nearly as possible the same 
period, that Seciety will discover that it always 
did despise Veneering, and distrust Veneering, 
and that when it went to Veneering’s to dinner 
it always had misvivings—though very secretly 
at the time, it would seem, and in a perfectly 
private and confidential manner. 
The next week’s books of the Insolvent Fates, 
however, being not yet opened, there is the usu- 
al rush to the Veneerings, ef the people who 
go to their house to dine with one another and 
not with them. There is Lady Tippins. ‘There 
are Podsnap the Great and Mrs. Podsnap. There 
is Twemlow. ‘There are Buffer, Boots, and Brew- 
er. There is the Contractor, who is Providence 
to five hundred thousand men., There is the 
Chairman, traveling three thousand miles per 
week. ‘There is the brilliant genius who turned 
the shares into that remarkably exact sum of 
three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, 


no shillings, and no pence. 


To whom add Mortimer Lightwood, coming 
in among them with a reassumption of his old 
languid air, founded on Eugene, and belonging 
to the days when he told the story of the man 
from Somewhere. 

That fresh fairy, Tippins, all but screams at 
sight of her false swain. She summons the de- 
serter to her with her fan;, but the deserter, pre- 
determined not to come, talks Britain with Pod- 
snap. Podsnap always talks Britain, and talks 
as if he were a sort of Private Watchman em- 
ployed, in the British interests, against the rest 
of the world. ‘‘ We know what Russia means, 
Sir,” says Podsnap; ‘‘we know what France 
wants; we see what America is up to; but we' 
know what England is. That’s enough for us.” | 

However, when dinner is served, and Light- 
wood drops into his old place over against Lady 
Tippins, she can be fended off no longer. ** Long | 
banished Robinson Crusoe,” says the charmer, 
exchanging salutations, “ how did you leave the 
Island ?”’ 

*“Thank you,” says Lightwood. ‘It made 
no complaint of being in pain any where.” 

‘Say, how did you leave the savages?” asks 
Lady Tippins. 

They were becoming civilized when I left 
Juan Fernandez,” says Lightwood. ‘‘At least they 
were eating one another, which looked like it.” 

‘*'Tormentor!” returns the dear young creat- 
ure. ‘*You know what I mean, and you trifle 
with my impatience, ‘Tell me something, im- 
mediately, about the married pair. You were. 
at the wedding.” 

““Was I, by-the-by ?” 
at great leisure, to consider. 


Mortimer pretends, 
**So I was!” 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, 851 


‘* How was the bride dressed? In rowing cos. 
tume ?” 

Mertimer looks gloomy, and declines to an- 
swer. . 

“I hope she steered herself, skiffed herself, 
paddled herself, larboarded and starboarded her- 
self, or whatever the technical term is, to the 
ceremony ?” continues the playful ‘Tippins. 

“‘ However she get to it she graced it,” says 


as a gooi husband, has from time.to | Mortimer. 


Lady Tippins with a skittish little scream at- 
tracts the general attention. ‘‘Graced it! ‘Take 
care of me if I faint, Veneering. He means to 
tell us that a horrid female waterman is grace- 
ful!” ; 

‘Pardon me. I mean to tell you nothing, 
Lady ‘Tippins,” replies Lightwood. And keeps 
his word by eating his dinner with a show of the 
utmost indifference. 

‘*You shall not escape me in this way, you 
morose backwoods-man,” retorts Lady Tippins. 
‘*You shall not evade the question, to screen 
your friend Engene who has made this exhibi- 
tion of himself. ‘The knowledge shall be brought 
home to you that such a ridiculous affair is con-. 
demned by the voice of Society. My dear Mrs. 
Veneering, do let us resolve ourselves into a 
Committee of the whole House on the subject.” 
. Mrs. Veneering, always charmed by this rat- 
tling sylph, cries: “Qh yes! Do let us resolve 
ourselves into a Committee of the whole House!’ 
So delicious!” Veneering says, ‘‘ As many as. 
are of that opinion, say Aye—contrary, No—the 
Ayes have it.” But nobody takes the slightest: 
notice of his joke. 

“Now, I am Chairwoman of Committees!’ - 
cries Lady Tippins. 

(‘‘What spirits she has!” exclaims Mrs. Ve-- 
neering ; to whom likewise nobody attends.) 

‘cAnd this,” pursues the sprightly one, ‘‘is a 
Committee of the whole House to what-you-may- 
eall-it-—elicit, I suappose—the voice of Society. 
The question before the Committee is, whether: 

a young man of very fair family, good appear-. 
ance, and some talent, makes a fool or a wise 
‘man of himself in marrying a female waterman, 
turned factory girl.” 

‘* Hardly so, I think,” the stubborn Mortimer 
strikes in. ‘‘I take the question to be, whether 
such a man as you describe, Lady Tippins, does. 
right or wrong in marrying a brave woman (I 
say nothing of her beauty), who has saved his. 
life, with a wonderful energy and address ; whom 
he knows to be virtuous and possessed of re- 
markable qualities; whom he has long admired, 
and who is deeply attached to him.” 

‘But, excuse me,” says Podsnap, with his 
temper and his shirt-collar about equally rum- 
pled; ‘‘was this young woman ever a female 
waterman ?” 

‘‘Never. But she sometimes rowed in a boat 
with her father, I believe.” 

General sensation against the young woman. 
Brewer shakes his head. Boots shakes his head. 
Buffer shakes his head. 

; ‘**And now, Mr, Lightwood, was she ever,” 
ursues Podsnap, with his indignation rising high 
into those hair-brushes of his, ‘‘a factory girl ?’”” 

‘¢Never. But she had some employment in 
a paper mill, I believe.” . 

General sensation, repeated. Brewersays, **Oh 
dear!” Boots says, *SOh dear!” Buffer says, 
‘“‘Qh dear!” All, in a rumbling tone of protest. 


eee 


ae Mah 
s 


352 


—and that I desire to know no more about it.” 


‘¢ Now I wonder,” thinks Mortimer, amused 
| : ’ ? 


“‘whether you are the voice of Society !”) 


‘‘Hear, hear, hear!” cries Lady Tippins. 
“Your opinion of this mésalliance, honorable 
colleague of the honorable member who has just 


sat down ?” 


Mrs. Podsnap is of opinion that in these mat- 
ters there should be an equality of station and 
fortune, and that a man accustomed to Society 
should look out for a woman accustomed to So- 
ciety and capable of bearing her part in it with 
—an ease and elegance of carriage—that—” 
Mrs. Podsnap stops there, delicately intimating 
that every such man should look out for a fine 
woman as nearly resembling herself as he may 


hope to discover. 


(‘* Now I wonder,” thinks Mortimer, * wheth-’ 


er you are the Voice!’’) 

Lady Tippins next canvasses the Contractor, 
of five hundred thousand power. 
this potentate, that what the man in question 


should have done, would have been, to buy the 
young woman a boat and a small annuity, and 
set her up for herself. These things are a ques- 
You buy the 
You buy 


tion of beef-steaks and porter. 
young woman a boat. Very good. 
her, at the same time, a small annuity. You 
speak of that annuity in pounds sterling, but it 


is in reality so many pounds of beef-steaks and so 
On the one hand, the 


many pints of porter. 
young woman has the boar. On the other hand, 
she consumes so many pounds of beef-steaks and 
so many pints of porter. ‘Those beef-steaks and 
that porter are the fuel to that young woman’s 
engine. She derives therefrom a certain amount 
of power to row the boat; that power will pro- 
duce so much money; and thus you get at the 
young woman’s income. That (it seems to the 
Contraetor) is the way of looking at it. 

The fair enslaver having fallen into one of her 
gentle sleeps during this last exposition, nobody 
likes towake her. Fortunately, she comes awake 
of herself, and puts the question to the Wander- 
ing Chairman. The Wanderer can only speak 
of the case as if it were his own. If such a 
young woman as the young woman described, 
had saved his own life, he would have been very 
much obliged to her, wouldn’t have married her, 
and would have got her a berth in an Electric 
Telegraph Office, where young women answer 
very well. 

What does the Genius of the three hundred 
and seventy-five thousand pounds, no shillings, 
and no pence, think? He can’t say what he 
thinks, without asking: Had the young woman 
any money ? 


‘* No,” says Lightwood, in an uncompromis- | 


ing voice; ‘*no money.” 

‘¢ Madness and moonshine,” is‘then the com- 
pressed verdict of the Genius. “A man may 
do any thing lawful, for money. But for no 
money ?—Bosh !” 

What does Boots say ? 


& 


OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
‘‘Then all J have to say is,” returns Podsnap, 
putting the thing away with his right arm, “that 
my gorge rises against such a marriage—that it 
offends and disgusts me—that it makes me sick 


It appears to 


twenty thousand pound. 
What does Brewer say ? 
Brewer says what Boots says. 
What does Buffer say. 


bathing-woman, and bolted. ‘i 

Lady Tippins fancies she has collected the suf- 
frages of the whole Committee (nobody dream- 
ing of asking the Veneerings for their opinion), 


glass, she perceives Mr. Twemlow with his hand 
to his forehead, . 

Good gracious!’ My Twemlow forgotten! My 
dearest! My own! What is his vote ? 

Twemlow has the air of being ill at ease, as 
he takes his hand from his forehead and replies. 

‘TY am disposed to think,” says he, ‘‘ that this 
is a question of the feelings of a gentleman.” 

‘A gentleman can have no feelings who con- 
tracts such a marriage,” flushes Podsnap, 

‘* Pardon me, Sir,” says Twemlow, rather less 
mildly than usual, ‘*I don’t agree with you. If 
this gentleman's feelings of gratitude, of respect, 
of admiration, and affection, induced him (as I 
presume they did) to marry this lady—? 

~ This lady!” echoes Podsnap. 

“* Sir,” returns Twemlow, with his wristbands 
bristling a little, ‘‘you repeat the word ; J repeat 
the word. 
call her if the gentleman were present ?” 

This being something in the nature of a poser 
for Podsnap, he merely waves it away with a 
speechless wave. ' 

‘* I say,” resumes Twemlow, ‘‘if such feelings 
on the part of this gentleman induced this gen- 
tleman to marry this lady, I think he is the 
greater gentleman for the action, and makes her 
the greater lady. I beg to say, that when I nse 
the word gentleman, I use it in the sense in 
which the degree may be attained by any man, 
The feelings of a gentleman I hold sacred, and 
I confess I am not comfortable when they are 
made the subject of sport or general discussion.” 

‘*T should like to know,” sneers Podsnap, 
‘‘ whether your noble relation would be of your 
opinion,” 

‘‘ Mr. Podsnap,”’ retorts Twemlow, ‘ permit 
me. He might be, or he might not be. I can 
not say. But I could not allow even him to dic- 
tate to me on a point of great delicacy, on which 
I feel very strongly.” . 

Somehow a canopy of wet blanket seems to 
descend upon the company, and Lady 'Tippins 
Was never known to turn so very greedy or so 
very cross. Mortimer Lightwood alone bright- 
ens. He has been asking himself, as to every 
other member of the Committee in turn, “I 
wonder whether you are the Voice!” But he 
does not ask himself the question after Twemlow 
has spoken, and he glances in T'wemlow’s direc- 
tion as if he were grateful. 
disperse—by which time Mr. and Mrs. Veneer- 
ing have had quite as much as they want of the 
honor, and the guests have had quite as much 


as they want of the other honor—Mortimer sees 
Twemlow home, shakes hands with him cordial- 
ly at parting, and fares to the Temple, gayly. 


THE END. 


Boots says he wouldn't have done it under a 


Buffer says he knows a man who married a 


when, looking round the table through her eye= 


This lady. What else would you. 


When the company - 


ete ee ee 


Sa ee 


timed Bin 2 


y 


eal 


Peek oO CeR TT Py, 


IN LIEU OF PREFACE. 


WuEn I devised this story, I foresaw the likelihood that a class of readers 
and commentators would suppose that I was at great pains to conceal exactly 
what I was at great pains to suggest: namely, that Mr. John Harmon was not 
slain, and that Mr. John Rokesmith was he. Pleasing myself with the idea 
that the supposition might in part arise out of some ingenuity in the story, and 
thinking it worth while, in the interests of art, to hint to an audience that an 
artist (of whatever denomination) may perhaps be trusted to know what he is 
about in his vocation, if they will concede him a little patience, I was not alarmed 
by the anticipation. 


To keep for a long time unsuspected, yet always working itself out, another 
purpose originating in that leading incident, and turning it to a pleasant and 
useful account at last, was at once the most interesting and the most difficult 
part of my design. Its difficulty was much enhanced by the mode of publica- 
tion ; for it would be very unreasonable to expect that many readers, pursuing 
@ story in portions from month to month through nineteen months, will, until 
they have it before them complete, perceive the relations of its finer threads to 
the whole pattern which is always before the eyes of the story-weaver at his 
loom. Yet, that I hold the advantages of the mode of publication to outweigh 
its disadvantages, may be easily believed of one who revived it in the Pickwick 
Papers after long disuse, and has pursued it ever since. 


There is sometimes an odd disposition in this country to dispute as improba. 
ble in fiction what are the commonest experiences in fact. Therefore I note 
here, though it may not be at all necessary, that there are hundreds of Will 
Cases (as they are called) far more remarkable than that fancied in this book; 
and that the stores of the Prerogative Office teem with instances of testators 
who have made, changed, contradicted, hidden, forgotten, left canceled, and left 
uneanceled, each many more wills than were ever made by the ele Mr. Har- 
mon of Harmony Jail. 


In my social experiences, since Mrs. Betty Higden came upon the scene and 
left it, I have found Circumlocutional authorities disposed to be warm with me 
on the subject of my view of the Poor Law. My friend Mr. Bounderby could 
never see any difference between leaving the Coketown “hands” exactly as 


they were, and requiring them to be fed with turtle soup and ane out of 


— 


ue 0 as tee ee ae eee yes ”™ pig WA) 3 oe) Lat 
AA PUMrON Fick Wi ata MT Naa in aS Se a 

i hy RM } en : J 4 ee ae ae 

D eu AS iy x ) 


* 354 ~\ POSTSCRIPT. © 


gold spoons. Idiotic propositions of a parallel nature have been freely offered 
for my acceptance, and I have been called upon to admit that I would give 


Poor Law relief to any body, any where, any how. Putting this nonsense aside, 
I have observed a suspicious tendency in the various authorities to divide into 


two parties; the one contending that there are no deserving Poor who prefer 
death by slow starvation and bitter weather to the mercies of some Relieving 
Officers and some Union Houses; the other admitting that there are such Poor, 
but denying that they have any cause or reason for what they do, The rec- 
ords in our newspapers, the late exposure by Tue Lancer, and the common 
sense and senses of common people, furnish too abundant evidence against both 
defenses. But that my view of the Poor Law may not be mistaken or misrep- 
resented, I will state it. I believe there has been in England, since the days of 


the Sruarrs, no law so often infamously administered, no law so often openly 


violated, no law habitually so ill-supervised. In the majority of the shameful 


_ cases of disease and death from destitution that shock the Public and disgrace 


the country, the illegality is quite equal to the inhumanity—and known lan- 
guage could say no more of their lawlessness. 


On Friday the Ninth of June, in the present year, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin (in 
their manuscript dress of receiving Mr. and Mrs. Lammle at breakfast) were on 
the Southeastern Railway with me in a terribly destructive accident. "When I 
had done what I could to help others, I climbed back into my carriage—nearly 
turned over a viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn—to extricate the worthy 
couple. They were much soiled, but otherwise unhurt. The same happy re- 
sult attended Miss Bella Wilfer on her wedding-day, and Mr. Riderhood in- 
specting Bradley Headstone’s red neckerchief as he lay asleep. I remember 
with devout thankfulness that I can never be nearer parting company with my 
readers forever than I was then, until there shall be written against my life the 
two words with which I have this day closed this book—Tux Enp. 


September 2, 1865. 


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MILDRED ARKELL. By Mrs. Wood. * * 
LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS. By Mrs. Wood. 
OSWALD CRAY. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 

SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
SQUIRE TREVLYN’& HEIR. By Mrs. Wood. 

THE CASTLE’S HEIR. By Mrs. Henry Wood. —~—~ 
VERNER’S PRIDE. By Mrs. Henry Wood. ; 
HIGH LIFE IN WASHINGTON. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. By Mrs. Shelly. 

SIX NIGHTS WITH THE WASHINGTONIANS. 
LOVE AND MONEY. By J.B. Jones. 

SILENT STRUGGLES. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. 
THE MATCHMAKER. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
LORRIMER LITTLEGOOD. By Frank Fairlegh. 
THE REFUGEE. By Herman Melville. 

THE FORSAKEN DAUGHTER. A Love Story. 
MODERN CHIVALRY. By H. H. Brackenridge. 
COAL AND COAL OIL. By Professor Bowen. 
FAMILY SECRETS. By Author of ‘‘ Family Pride.’ 
THE BROTHER’S SECRET. By William Godwin. 
FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. 
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THE LOST LOVE. By author of ‘John Drayton.” 
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THE PRIDE OF LIFE. By Lady Jane Scott. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. By Mrs. Southworth. 

THE LOST DAUGHTER. By Caroline Lee Hentz. 
BOHEMIANS OF LONDON. By E.M. Whitty. 

THE RIVAL BELLES. By J. B. Jones. 

THE DEVOT"®D BRIDE. By St. George Tucker. 
LOVE AND (UTY. By Mrs. Hubbach. 

SELF SACRI¥ICE. By author “‘ Margaret Maitland.” 
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PETERSONS’ NEW COOK BOOK. — 

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THE DAYS OF SHODDY. By Henry Morford. 
SHOULDER-STRAPS. The Great Novel of the War. 
ERNEST LINWOOD. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE. By Mrs. Southworth. 
THE CONSCRIPT. By Alexander Dumas. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. By Mrs. Southworth. 
CAMILLE; or THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. 
THE INITIALS. A Love Story. 

COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. By Alexander Dumas. 
THE WANDERING JEW. Illustrated. By Eugene Sue. 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. By Eugene Sue. 
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By S. C. Warren. 

THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY By Mrs. Southworth. 
PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE. By Mrs. Hentz. 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. By Fredrika Bremer. 
THE NEIGHBORS. By Fredrika Bremer. 

THE FOUR SISTERS. By Fredrika Bremer. 

THE HOME. By Fredrika Bremer. 

FASHION AND FAMINE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. 
DOESTICKS’ LETTERS. By Q. K. P. Doesticks. 
GAMBLING EXPOSED. By J. H. Green. 

_OLD STONE MANSION. By Charles J. Peterson. 
THE WATCHMAN. By J. A. Maitland. 

THE LOST HEIRESS, By Mrs. E. D.E.N. Southworth. 
COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. By Robert Morris. 
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. By Mrs. C. Lee Hentz. 
COUSIN HARRY. By Mrs. Grey. 

THE DEAD SECRET. By Wilkie Collins, 

THE CAVALIER. By G. P. R. James. 

THE BELLE OF WASHINGTON. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. By Mrs. Southworth. 

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. By Mrs. Southworth. 


“BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS. 


LINDA. by Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 

ROBERT GRAHAM. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. 
THE ELEPHANT CLUB. By Q. K. P. Doesticks. 
THE GAMBLER’S LIFE. By J. H. Green. 

KATE AYLESFORD. By Charles J. Peterson. 
DIARY OF AN OLD DOCTOR. By J. A. Maitland. 
THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. By Mrs. Southworth 
THE BORDER ROVER. By Emerson Bennett. 
CLARA MORELAND. By Emerson Bennett. 

THE CROSSED PATH. By Wilkie Collins. 

THE LITTLE BEAUTY. By Mrs. Grey. 

LORD MONTAGU’S PAGE By G.P. R. James. 
RETRIBUTION. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 
THE BANISHED SON. By Mts. Caroline Lee Hentz 
THE HEIRESS. By Mrs. Ann S. stephens. 

THE WITCHES OF NEW YORK. By Doesticks. 
HARRY COVERDALE’S: Courtship and Marriage. 
JUDGE HALIBURTON’S YANKEE STORIES, 
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THE MISSING BRIDE. By Mrs. Southworth. 
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HELEN AND ARTHUR. By Mrs. C. Lee Hentz. 
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SECRET B .ND OF BROTHERS. By J. H. Green. 
LIZZY GLENN. By T.S§. Arthur. 

THE WANDERER. By J. A. Maitland. 

THE TWO SISTERS. | By Mrs. E.D. E. N. Southworth. 
THE THREE BEAUTIES. By Mrs. Southworth. 
RENA; OR, TILE SNOW-BIRD. By Mrs. Uentz. 
HIGH LIFE IN NEW YORK. By Jonathan Slick. 
INDIANA. A Love 8 ory. By Geo. Sand. 

THE WIFE’S VICTORY. By Mrs. Southworth. 
VIVIA, SECRET OF POWER. By Mrs. Southworth 
THE JEALOUS HUSBAND. A Love Story. 
EOLINE; OR MAGNOLIA VALE. By Mrs. Hentz. 
MARCUS WARLAND. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Southworth. 
INDIA. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 

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THE LAWYER’S STORY. By J. A. Maitland. 

By E. Bennett. 
VIOLA; or, ADVENTURES in FAR SOUTH-WEST. 
THE FORGED WILL. By Emerson Bennett. 

THE THREE COUSINS. By J. A. Meitland. 

KATE CLARENDON. By Emerson Bennett. 
SARTAROE. By James A. Maitland. 

ELLEN NORBURY. By Emerson Benuett. 

LIFE AND BEAUTIES OF FANNY FERN. 

LIFE AND LECTURES OF LOLA MONTEZ, 
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HUMORS OF FALCONBRIDGE, 

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CURRER LYLE; Or, Autobiography of an Actress. 
SAM SLICK, THE CLOCKMAKER. By Sam Slick. 
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SIMON SUGGS’ ADVENTURES AND TRAVELS. 
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AfterDark. Onevol., octavo, paper, cover. Price 
75 cents; or bound in one vol., cloth, for $1.00. 

Sights a-foot; or Travels Beyond Railways, One 
volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

-]he Yellow Mask. Price 25 cents. 

The Stolen Mask. Price 25 cents. 


Sister Rose. Price 25 cents, 


MISS PARDOE’S WORKS. 
Confessions of a Pretty Woman. By Miss 
Pardoe. Complete in onevolume. Price 75 cents. 
The Jealous Wife. By Miss Pardoe. Complete 
in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents. 
The Wife’s Trials. By Miss Pardoe. Complete 
in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
The Rival Beauties. By Miss Pardoe. 
plete in one large octavo volume. 
RMoraance of the Harem. By Miss Pardoe. 
Ccmplete in one large octavo vol. Price Fifty cents. 
Miss Pardoe’s Complete Works. This com- 
prises the whole of the above Five works, and are 
bound in cloth, gilt, in one volume. Price $4.00. 


The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe. One vol., 
paper. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, for $2.00. 


A Luife’s Struggle. Cloth. Price $2.00. 


Com- 
Price 75 cents. 


‘7. B, PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 7 


COOK BOOKS. 


Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it should 
be. A New Manual. of the Dining Room and 
Kitchen. Price $2.00. 

Petersons’ New Cook Books: or Useful Re- 
ceipts for the Housewife and the uninitiated. One 
vol., bound. Price $2.00. 

Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book. Being 
her last new book. One volume, bound. Price $2.00. 

Widdifield’s New Cook Books; or, Practical 
Receipts for the Housewife. Cloth. Price $2.00. 

Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book. By Mrs. Sarab 
J. Hale. One volume, bound. Price $2.00. 

Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking 
Complete in one volume, bound. Price $2.00. 


MRS. HALE’S RECEIPTS. 


Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million, 
Containing 4545 Receipts. By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. 
One vol., 800 pages, strongly bound. Price $2 00. 


FRANCA rE LLYS FRENCH COOK. 


Brancateili’s Celebrated KFrench Cook 
Book. The Modern Cook. A Practical 
Guide to the Culinary Art, in all its branches; com- 
prising, in addition to English Cookery, the most 
approved and recherché systems of French, Italian, 
and German Cookery ; adapted as well for the largest 
establishments, as for the use of private families. 
By CHACLES ELME FRANCATELLI, pupil to the 
celebrated CAREME, and late Maitre-d’Hotel and 
Chief Cook to her Majesty, the Queen of England. 
With Sixty-Two Illustrations of various dishes. 
Complete in one large octavo yolume of Six Hundred 
pages. Price $5.00. 


SAMUEL C. WARREN’S BOOKS. 
Ten Thousand a Year. Complete in one vol., 
paper cover. Price $1.50; or an edition, in one 
volume, cloth, for $2.00. 


Diary of a Medical Student. By author of 
‘““Ten Thousand a Year.’? Complete in one octave 
volume, paper cover. Price 75 cents. ; 


EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS. 


The Bordec Rover. Fine edition, bound in 
- cloth, for $2.40; or Railroad Edition for $1.50. 
Clara Moreland. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $2.00; or Railroad Edition, in paper, for $1.50. 
The Forged Will. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $2.00 ; or Railroad Edition, in paper, for $1.50. 
Ellem Norbury. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $2.00; or Railroad Edition, in paper, for $1.50. 
Bride of the Wilderness. Fine edition, bound 
in cloth, for $2.00; or Railroad Edition for $1.50. 
Kate Clarendon. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $2.00; or Railroad Edition, in paper, for $1.50. 
Viola. Fine edition, cloth, for $2.00; or Railroad 
Edition for $1.50. 


Heiress of Bellefonte and Walde-Ware 
relse Price 50 cents, 


Pioneer’s Daughter; and the Unknown 
Countess. Price 50 cents, 


WwW. H. MAXWELL’S WORKS. 
Stories of Waterloo. One of the best bocksia 
the English language. One vol. Price 75 cents. 
Brian O’Lynn; or, Luck is Everything. 75 cents. 

Wild Sports*in the West. Price 75 cents. 


DOESTICKS’ BOOKS. 
Doesticks’ Letters. Complete in one volume, 
paper cover. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, $2.00. 


Plu-ri-bus-tah. Complete in one vol., paper 
cover. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, $2.00. 

The Elephant Club. Complete in one vol., 
paper cover. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, $2.00, 

Witches of New York. Complete in one vol., 
paper cover. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, $2.00. 


Nothing to Say. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. . 


Copies of any of the above Works will be sent, Free of Postage, on Receipt of Retail Price, 
By T. B. PETERSOV & RROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


8 T B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BOOKS. 
Mildred Arkell. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50; or in cloth, $2.00. 
Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or, Earl's 


Heirs. One volume, paper cover. Price $1.50; 
or in cloth, $2.00. : 


Oswald Cray. One volume, paper cover. 
$1.50; ordin one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 


The Shadow of Ashlydyat. One vol., paper 


Price 


cover. Price $1.50; orin one vol., cloth, for $2.60. 
Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or, Trevlyn 
Hold. One vol., paper cover. Price $1.50; or in 


one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 
The Castle’s Heir. One vol., octavo, peper cover. 
Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 
Verner’s Pride. One vol., octavo, paper cover. 
Price $1°50; or bound in one vol., cloth, for $2.00. 
The Channings. One volume, octavo, paper co- 
ver. Price $1.00; orin one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 
The Red Court Farm. Price 75 cents. 
A Life’s Secret. One volume, paper cover. Price 
Fifty cents; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.00. 
The Mystery. Paper, 75 cents; or in cloth, $1.00, 
The Lost Bank Note. Price 75 cents. 
The Haunted Tower. Price Fifty cents. 


The Lost Will; or, The Diamond 
Bracelet. Price 50 cents. 


The Runaway Match. One volumy, paper co- 
ver. Price 50 cents. 


Aurora Floyd. One volume, paper cover. Price 
75 cents ; or a finer edition, bound in cloth, for $1.50. 


Better For Worse. One volume, octavo, paper 
cover. Price 75 cents. 


Foggy Night at Offord. Price 25 cents. 
William Allair. One volume. Price 25 cents. 
Lawyer’s Secret. One volume. Price 25 cents, 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 
Count of Monte-Cristo. Illustrated. One vol- 
ume, cloth, $2.00; or paper cover, for $1.50, 
Edmond Dantes. Being a Sequel to Dumas’ cele- 
brated novel of the ‘‘ Count of Monte Cristo.’’ 75 cts. 


The Conscript. Ore vol., paper cover. Price 
$1.50; or in one vol., cloth, for $2.00 

Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette. 
Only correct Translation from the Original French. 
One volume, paper, price $1.50; or in cloth, $2.00. 


The Three Guardsmen. Price 75 cents, in 
paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth for $2.00. 


Twenty Years After. A Sequel tothe “Three 
Guardsmen.”’ Price 75 cents, in paper cover, ora finer 
edition, in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 


Bragelonne; the Sen of Athos: being the 
continuation of ‘‘Twenty Years After.’? Price 75 
cents, in paper, or a finer edition, in cloth, for $2.00. 


Whe Iron Mask. Being the continuation of the 
““Three Guardsmen,’’ ‘Twenty Years After,” and 
“‘Bragelonne.” Paper $1.00; or in cloth, $2.00, 


Louise La Valliere; or, The Second Series and 
end of the ‘‘Iron Mask.’’ Paper $1.00; or cloth, $2. 


The Memoirs of a Physician. Beautifully 
Illustrated. Paper $1.00; or in cloth, for $2.00. 


The Queen’s Necklace; or, The ‘‘ Second Series 
of the Memoirs of a Physician.’? Paper cover. 
Price $1.00 ; or in one vol., cloth} for $2.00. 

Six Years Later’; or, Taking of the Bastile. Be- 
ing the ‘‘Third Series of the Memoirs of a Physi- 
cian.’’ Paper $1.00; or in cloth, for $2.00. 

Countess of Charny ; or, The Fall of the French 
Monarchy. Being the ‘‘ Fourth Series of the Memoirs 

ofa Physician.’’ Paper $1.00; or in cloth, for $2.00. 

Andree de Taverney. Being the “ Fifth Series 
of the Memoirs of a Physician.’’ Paper cover. 
Price $1.00; or in one vol., cloth, for $2.00. 


The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final 
conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician.’’? - Com- 
plete in one large octavo volume. Price $1.00. 


The Adventures of a Marquis. Paper co- 
ver. Price $1.00; or in one vol. cloth for $2.00. 


as 


Copies of any of 


etna oy 30 Dae lie ER Chace: Oe 


\F PUBLICATIONS. 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. — 
The Forty-Five Guardsmen. Price 75 cta, 
or a finer edition in one yolume, cloth. Price $2.00. 


Diana of Meridor. Paper cover, Price One 
Dollar; or in one vol., cloth, for $2.00. 


The Iron Hand. Price 75 cents, in paper cover, 
or a finer edition in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 


Annette; or, The Lady of the Pearls. A 
Companion to “‘Camille.’’ 


The Fallen Angel. A Story of Love and Life 
in Paris. One volume. Price 75 cents. 


The Man with Fiwe Wives. 
one volume. Price 75 cents. 


George; or, The Planter of the Isie of 
France. One volume: Price Fifty cents. 


The Mohicans of Paris. Price 50 cents. 

Sketches in Prance. Price 75 cents, 

Isabel of Bavaria. Price 75 cents. 

Felina de Chambure; or, The Female Fiend. 
Price 75 cents. 

The Horrors of Paris. 

The Twin Lieutenants. 

The Corsican Brothers. Price 25 cents. 


FRANK E. SMEDLEY’S WORKS. 
Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Mare 
riage. One vol., paper. Price $1.50; or cloth, $2.00. 
Lorrimer Littlegood. By author of “Frank 
Fairleigh.’’ One vol., paper, price $1.50, or cloth 2.00. 
Frank Fairleigh. One voiume, cloth, $2.00; or 
cheap edition in paper cover, for 75 cents. 
Lewis Arundel. One vol., cloth. Price $2.00; 
or cheap edition in paper cover;,for 75 cents. 


Fortunes and Misfortunes of Harry 
Racket Scapegrace. Cloth. Price $2.00; or 
cheap edition in paper cover, for 75 cents. 


Tom Racquet; and His Three Maiden Aunts, 


Complete in 


Price 50 cents. 
Price 75 cents. 


lilustrated. Price 75 cents. 
MRS. GREY’S NEW BOOKS, 
Little Beauty. One vol., paper cover. Price 
$1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 
Cousin Harry. One vol., paper cover. Pries 


$1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 


MRS. GREY’S POPULAR NOVELS. 
Price Twenty-five cents each. 
Alice Seymour. Hyacinthe. 
Price Fifty eents each. 
The Mancuvring Mother. 
The Young Prima Donna. 
The Gipsy’s Daughter. 
Belle of the Family. 
Duke and Cousin. 
The Little Wife. 
Old Dower Housa 
Baronet’s Daughters. 
Sybil Lennard. 
Lena Cameron. 
Price Seventy-five cents each. 
Passion & Principle. 
Good Society. 
Mary Seaham... 
Lion Hearted. 
The Flirt. 
G. P.R. JAMES’S NEW BOOKS ~ 
The Cavalier. An Historical Romance. With a 


steel portrait of theauthor. One vol., paper cover. 
Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, for $2.00. 


Lord Montagu’s Page. One volume, paper 
cover, Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, $2.09. 

Whe Manin Black. Price 75 cents. 

Arrah Neil. Price 75 cents. 

Mary of Burgundy. Price 75 cents. ae 

Eva St. Clair; and other Tales. Price 50 cents, 


ae 


the above Works will be sent, Free of Postage, on Receipt of Retail Price 
By T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS Philadelphia, Pa. , 


Price 50 cents. ‘At 


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